


One-shots

by Snooky



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snooky/pseuds/Snooky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking several one-shots originally posted on fanfiction.net and posting in separate chapters. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Matter of Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone learns that perhaps the glass, is indeed, half-full

*****

"Hey kid. Got a light?"

A young corporal was seated on a bench inside the recreation hall when he was approached by the other prisoner. It was mid-morning, and the hall was packed with men from several barracks, all eager to make the best use of their allotted time. The building was full of good-natured ribbing, sounds of laughter, and clouds of smoke.

"Oh, sure, Sarge." He patted around his uniform, the one he was captured in, and found some matches in a pocket. He handed the book over.

"Thanks. "The sergeant lit a cigarette. "Want one?"

"No, thanks."

"Suit yourself." The sergeant handed the book of matches back to the corporal and then took a puff. "I got plenty. Been stocking up. It'll be a while until your first Red Cross package shows up. Paperwork." He deftly caught an errant ping pong ball and tossed it back.

"Thanks, Sarge!" The private who caught the ball returned to the table and served. The game resumed; the sound of the ball offering a subtle hypnotic rhythm that seemed to overtake the mix of conversation and the sound of the wind hissing through the poorly insulated walls.

The sergeant plopped himself down on the bench. "So, when did you get in?" he asked the corporal.

"I got in last week." The corporal's eyes followed the game.

"Oh, yeah. You came in with that group of six. So, you're in nineteen…" The sergeant took another puff and blew a smoke ring. "Matlack's a good chief."

"Seems all right."

"I'm Mickey Jergens. Been here two years."

The corporal turned and faced Jergens. "Joe Cooper."

Jergens shifted. For several seconds it appeared as if he was sizing up the new arrival. He took one more puff of his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the wooden floor. "You look a little down in the dumps, Cooper."

"Luck ran out I guess." Cooper shrugged, not taking any offense at the sergeant's observation. "Didn't expect I'd end up in a …"

"POW camp?"

Cooper nodded.

"Where you from, Cooper?"Jergens asked.

"Dayton, Ohio."

"Hey, that a fact? Wait here."

Jergens got up and strode over to a table, where several men were working on a jigsaw puzzle. He whispered something to a corporal working on one corner. The corporal left the table and followed Jergens over.

"Hey Baxter! This is Joe Cooper from Dayton," Jergens said. "Cooper's new."

"We're practically neighbors, " Baxter replied in a distinct accent. "Kentucky." He shook Cooper's hand. "I'm in 14 with this guy, obviously." Baxter grinned. "We'll have to compare notes sometime."

"Thanks." Cooper replied. Baxter left the two and went back to the puzzle.

'You see," Jergens said cheerfully. "Your luck just changed."

Cooper shrugged. "Could be a coincidence."

"You get shot down or captured on the ground?"

"Shot down."

"Hurt?" Jergens asked.

"No. I couldn't believe it. The chute opened and then I had a picture perfect landing. Just like we trained." Cooper sat up straight and motioned with his left arm. "Whoosh! Right through the trees."

Jergens slapped his knee. "There. You see? That was your first true bit of good luck. Where did you land?"

"Some town," Cooper replied. "Never caught the name."

"Really? Who captured you?"

Cooper took a deep breath. "Actually, it was all of us. The whole crew. A Wehrmacht platoon was going through. We were sitting ducks though."

Jergens shook his head. "Now that's where you're wrong, kid. First, your whole crew made it. That's luck right there. Not often that happens. You were lucky a platoon was there. The civilians could have attacked you guys, or turned you over to the Gestapo, or the SS. They take you to the Dulag for interrogation?"

"No. They put us in the town jail for a few nights. Asked us questions over and over, and then separated the officers. We never saw the captain and co-pilot after that. A guard told us they were sent to an Oflag."

"You're lucky you didn't go to the Dulag. Single cells, freezing, no contact. It still gives me nightmares." Jergens shuddered at the memory.

"I've heard about it. We were put on a train with another group of prisoners." A glint of moisture showed in the corporal's eyes. He quickly wiped his face, and then continued. "Boxcars for two days. The guards had to stop some civilians from going after us when we pulled into a station to take a break."

"I hear ya. See that guy over there by the record player?" Jergens pointed towards the other side of the hall.

"Yeah."

"His name is Mertz. This isn't his first camp. He was shot down over France and then shipped all the way out east to Poland. Spent eight days on the train. Can you believe it?"

"How did he end up here?"

"Transfer. For no good reason. The Krauts do that. Seemed if they spent less time shuttling people all over the place on trains, they wouldn't be losing. Well, you made it through the train ride didn't ya?" He slapped Cooper on the back. "And now you're here. Lucky for you."

"How so?" Cooper asked in a skeptical tone.

"Well, this is no Waldorf Astoria. But it's better than a lot of camps. Ask Mertz. Most of the guards aren't too bad. Just keep away from the wire and stay in at night and you won't get her hurt. Been here two years. Haven't seen anyone die yet, so far as I know. Food." Jergens continued. "There's never enough. But we're not starving. Hey, you know where we are, right?"

"Stalag 13," Cooper answered.

"No. The town."

"Near Hammelburg."

"See, there's another bit of luck. There's two Hammelburgs. Like we have a lot Springfield's. The other one? It's out east. Huge camp there. Us, well we're near Dusseldorf. The northwest corner of Germany. When the Allies come over the border guess who gets freed first? We do! They should be here by Christmas, I reckon."

"Really?" Cooper perked up. "Hey, how did you know…?"

"Don't listen to Mick." Another sergeant had overheard and stopped the conversation. "He could sell snow to the Eskimos."

"Yeah, I'm not the only one in the camp with that reputation, Mills." Jergens retorted. Mills laughed.

"Is there an escape committee?" Cooper whispered.

"Hey now. That's pushing your luck. Leave that to the officers and the Brits. Trust me; it's best to stay put. Too many ifs. If you can speak German. If you can get civilian clothes. If you can get papers. If we can get a tunnel built before the ferrets find it. Your parents would rather see you home in one piece. Don't take any chances." The sergeant now gave Cooper a look that meant business.

Cooper swallowed and nodded. He continued to silently watch the ping pong game in progress, until the door opened and Schultz walked in.

"Time's up. Out, out. Raus." There was no threat in the guard's tone, as the good-natured verbal sparring back and forth began. "If you stay here longer, when would Barracks 13 and 9 get their time?" Schultz wagged his finger at a corporal who was complaining.

"Oh, come on Schultz. Those guys don't deserve rec time." Baxter said to the sergeant. "They cheat at poker."

"No gambling. Out," Schultz insisted. He pointed to the door.

Everyone laughed and filed out of the building.

"No gambling." Jergens chuckled. "Yeah, right," he told Cooper. "He's the top offender." He winked. "Lucky for us, he's the Sergeant of the Guard."

"He seems decent enough." Cooper followed him out of the building

"Yeah, most of them seem pretty decent. Klink's not too bad either."

"What about his no escape record?" The two started heading towards Cooper's barracks.

"Oh, he's good at what he does," Jergens said quickly. "I think he's just decent, that's all. He and Colonel Hogan, they play this little dance, ya see. Bargains, trades, the works. You meet him yet?"

"Colonel Hogan? Just when we came in"

"Triple sevens; twenty-one, four leaf clover. You hit the C.O. jackpot."

"Really?"

"Don't get me wrong, kid. He's strict. West Point, I think; but he'll watch your back. Hey, Kinch!" Jergens greeted his fellow sergeant. "What's up?"

"Looking for Corporal Cooper." Kinch said.

"Right here." Jergens pointed to the corporal.

"Good. We've been looking for you." Kinch winked at Jergens and the two exchanged a look. "We need you to come over to Barracks two. Colonel Hogan wants to meet with you."

"Me?" Cooper asked nervously.

"Go ahead kid." Jergens gave Cooper a light push. "It'll be okay. "Hey listen," he said encouragingly. "Your good luck. It just got better."


	2. Everyone has their Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stress can get the best of anyone; even those at the top...My entry in Hubble's short story speedwriting contest

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

  
_This story is a collaborative effort. Thank you to Bits and Pieces for her beta, my sister Ruth for her assistance with whatever French is in here, and finally, a huge shout-out to Linda Groundwater for coming through at the last minute with the last few lines. I was desperate, my brain was fried, and I wanted to get this published._

A full-grown man in the grip of uncontrolled panic is not a pleasant sight. It was, in fact, a bit of a shock to see someone who was always in control, who spent years putting his life on the line and living with terror every second, finally lose it. And now, the panic threatened the rest of the party.

"It was bound to 'appen," Newkirk whispered to Carter. The sergeant didn't reply. Unable to react, he just stood there, dumbfounded.

"Carter!" Newkirk poked his buddy. "We have to do something. This will put everything at risk!"

"Where is he?" Hogan began pacing back and forth. "He should have been here by now." The colonel ran his fingers through his hair, and began to mutter unintelligible words under his breath.

Carter swallowed and meekly shook his head.

For the hundredth time in the last hour, Hogan glanced at his watch. "Newkirk, check the door!"

The corporal slowly opened the door a crack and waited for a sign. He spied Kinch several yards away, speaking quietly to another man. They both spied Newkirk, and then Kinch shrugged and shook his head.

"No sign of 'im," Newkirk reported. The Brit was a bit perturbed that Hogan, who seemed about to blow a gasket, was beginning to breathe rapidly.

Hogan began pacing again. "He's always late," he complained.

"Calm down or you'll hyperventilate." Wilson, who had been quietly sitting in the corner, stood up and walked over to Hogan. "Take it easy," he whispered. "It's out of your hands. Here, sit down and drink this."

Hogan obeyed the medic and took a seat. He gulped down the glass of water Wilson handed to him. "I should have gone out myself. If I had brought him in, this wouldn't have happened."

"LeBeau was the best choice to make the pick-up, Colonel. You know that."

Hogan popped up and went over to the window. He seemed hypnotized by the view. "You know, I never thought this day would come," he said quietly. "I'm not sure I can handle it."

Newkirk, Carter and Wilson glanced at each other. Carter finally approached the colonel, gathered up some courage and began to speak. "Sir, first of all, we think you can handle about anything that comes up. But, everything will turn out fine, you'll see. I have an instinct about these things… A gut feeling."

Hogan turned around. "Thanks, Carter. I know you are all trying to make me feel better. But this was my responsibility. It's my job."

"We're all here for you, sir. That's why you picked us for the team. One way or the other, we'll see this through – for you, us, and all those out there depending on you." Newkirk cracked the door open again, while Wilson began to force the colonel into taking some deep breaths.

Suddenly, Carter, who had taken Hogan's place at the window, spotted a commotion. Several cars had come into view and had pulled up outside.

hhh000hhh

LeBeau had been the most appropriate team member to complete the pick-up. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, or unexpected barriers that might come his way, he had left over an hour ago; plenty of time to meet his contact, and bring him in. However, as warned, his contact was late.

"Louis LeBeau?"

LeBeau had been nursing a drink in the hotel lobby. At the sound of his name, he turned away from the bar, and approached his charge.

Sighing in relief, he gazed at the chastened and disheveled figure in front of him. "Jacques?"

"Yes. I apologize, I know I'm late. You wouldn't believe…"

"We'll discuss that later." LeBeau began to hustle the man out of the hotel and into the car. "It doesn't matter now. You have an appointment."

Unfortunately, Murphy's Law struck again, and LeBeau found himself stuck in traffic. Police were directing the vehicles, and that was the last thing the Frenchman wanted. "Hang on," he warned his passenger. "We're taking a different route." He turned the car around, and to the dismay of his charge, now not only afraid of being stopped, but fearing a major crash, Louis began driving up sidewalks, and through narrow alleyways. He missed hitting several cursing pedestrians, and some shop displays, but sure enough, LeBeau's driving skills and knowledge of the area, safely deposited the two outside the traffic zone and on a deserted street.

"I must say, I'm impressed."

"Merci, Jacques. And now we should arrive in a few minutes."

000hhh000

"He's here! I see Louis!" Carter pointed to the outside, and then ran towards the door.

"About time!" Newkirk opened the door and gave Kinch a thumbs up. The sergeant grinned, and he – along with the men waiting with him – left to greet Louis and his passenger.

Although Hogan was relieved, he was still shaken, and he gulped down a shot of scotch to settle his nerves. He then followed Carter and Wilson to the door. Glancing out, he took a deep breath. "Always cutting it close," he murmured as he hurried out, Carter and Wilson following closely behind.

A small crowd had gathered around Hogan's quarry, who, although a bit embarrassed, strode gamely and bravely over to the officer. They looked each other in the eye.

"Afternoon," the man said.

"You're going to give me an ulcer one day," Hogan replied.

"Train was late."

LeBeau backed the man up. "That is true. And then the traffic, the police… Tsk, tsk, it was a nightmare! But we are here – with time to spare!"

"You okay, Robert? You look a little pale." An Englishman dressed as the rest of the team had approached from the side.

Hogan took another deep breath. "I'm okay, thanks. Now that everyone is here, I think we should take our….Wait one minute. You have it?"

"Right here in my pocket." Jacques tapped the side of his pants.

Knowing that they had, and would always be there for each other, the two men quickly embraced.

Some of the men in the group scattered, taking their spots alongside other prisoners, while Hogan, his main team, and several others, walked nervously towards their assigned places. The wait was over and the team was ready. Hogan's stomach was still flip-flopping, but he chalked it up to the nerves and tension that still remained. He put his anxiety on the back-burner and gazed out at the people waiting silently for the moment. His team and friends stood near, always loyal, ready to act and be there for him, no matter what the circumstances. Happy and sad, terrifying and exhilarating; steady as a rock, no matter what he asked of them.

"It's time," a soft voice whispered.

Hogan and his men turned in unison.

The door reopened and Hogan traveled back to the moment that had brought him to this place.

000hhh000

"Colonel Hogan. Someone is here to see you."

"Send him in, Lieutenant."

"Um, sir, it's a she, not a he," his aide replied.

"Really?" That got the colonel's attention. "Well, don't keep this person waiting."

"Right away, sir." The lieutenant quietly shut the door.

Hogan pushed aside the paperwork and checked himself in the full-length mirror located next to the filing cabinet. "What do you think?"

"Well, bro, if I were a girl, I'd be impressed. But you were always the one with the boyishly handsome face; although now I would call you distinguished. It's the grey hair and crow's feet."

"Thanks." Every time Hogan looked in the mirror, he was reminded of his service and captivity. His hair had eventually turned grey from the stress and tension.

"Any idea who it is?" his brother asked as he stood up. He brushed some lint off of Hogan's jacket.

"No."

There was a light tap on the door.

"Come in."

"Bonjour, Colonel."

"Dr. Lechay! This is a pleasant surprise."

"I am in the states for a conference. Since I was so close, I wanted to pay you a visit. I hope I am not intruding." She glanced at the other man in the office.

"No, not at all, Doctor. This is my brother, Jack."

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Robert hasn't mentioned you. But then, he hasn't mentioned a lot of people. Do you know each other from before the war?"

"No, we met in camp." Hogan smiled. "You look, um, well." Actually the doctor looked very well. Her blonde hair was swept up in a bouffant style, and her suit flattered her figure. The tension present in her eyes while at camp was gone.

"You also look well, Colonel." She smiled.

"Please, call me Robert. Actually, next month, I'll be a civilian again."

"I'm sorry, I thought you had been promoted." Suzanne was surprised. As soon as word had leaked of the extraordinary events that took place at Stalag 13, Hogan had become, for a time, a bona fide celebrity.

"I had my reasons for turning it down," Hogan replied. "I didn't deserve all the attention. Too many people were involved, and too many didn't make it. Not to mention the information that was kept from us. We may have been able to save a lot of people;civilians, children..." Hogan momentarily stared down at the floor. It was a sore subject for him, and one he was hesitant to discuss.

"Je comprends. I mean, I understand."

Hogan swallowed, and took a breath. Ignoring his brother, he asked Suzanne, "This may be presumptuous, but I would be honored if you would join me for dinner." Hogan had not dated since he had returned from the continent several months ago. His men had wrongly assumed that he would have tracked down Tiger and started a real relationship. However, both realized that their attraction was in the moment and they were not right for each other. They parted as friends. He had thought about Suzanne many times. Word had quickly come via London that she had arrived safely and started working for the Allies. After the war, she had returned to France and had accepted a position at the Sorbonne. During her short time at Stalag 13, Suzanne had alternately frustrated Hogan and amused him. She was his equal, and he had to admit, he found that attractive. Yes, he admitted, he wanted a woman, closer to his age, who would be his partner in life, not just a trophy hanging on his arm. He nervously waited for her answer.

"I would be delighted to join you for dinner."

And so began a year-long courtship that eventually led to this moment; a church nestled in a quiet street on the Île Saint-Louis. Suzanne's friends and family seated on one side; Hogan's friends, many still in uniform, and his family and relatives taking their places on the other. Hogan, the best man – his brother Jack, his ushers, his main team from Stalag 13, two cousins, his friend Roberts from the RAF, and Wilson waited at the front of the church.

The music began, and the bridal party began their march down the aisle. Suzanne, dressed in a simple but elegant white gown, held tightly on to her father's arm. She and Hogan gazed lovingly at each other.

"You look so beautiful," he whispered; and then he smiled that smile that made more than one woman weak in the knees.

"Robert. Do you recall that time in camp, when you told me not to throw my life away? I listened to your advice… and I decided you were right, mostly. A woman must throw herself at something."

"Throwing yourself at a man can be considered unattractive," Hogan whispered lightly.

"You are objecting?" she asked, equally playful.

"No," he replied, as the priest began to welcome the guests to the ceremony, "and neither better anybody else!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suzanne is from the episode "Hogan and the Lady Doctor." This story is also an answer to a recent discussion on the forums about Hogan and women. Watch it if you have a chance. There are some terrific lines in this episode, including a foreshadowing about marriage.


	3. The Telephone Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2013 PBA winner! Silver for best snapshot. A one-sided conversation. I'm sure you can all fill in the blanks. Just a little quick one-shot for Mother's Day.

The Telephone Hour

Mom. Stop crying. It's okay. Mom, please.

Didn't you get my telegram?

Mom, don't start crying again.

Mom, I'm fine.

Is Dad there?

No. Don't hang up. It's not easy getting these calls through.

I know you saw some pictures. But we weren't at those camps.

No. I'm not lying.

Yes, I know officers are supposed to escape, but I couldn't…Wait, do you know how dangerous that was?

Yes, it was a long time. But, I was in charge of a lot of enlisted men and…

Mom, I'm 40 years old…

Yes, I know I'm still your baby. Yes, ma'am. Mom. They're telling me I have to go.

I'll let you know what ship I'm on.

What? You and Dad will meet me in New York?

I'd like that.

I love you too.


	4. At What Cost?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the SSSW contest. This can be also considered a companion piece for "Out the Front Gates." Two colonels face a crisis near the end of the war, and find that an old quote is ageless.

At What Cost?

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Realizing that he had read the same sentence five times, Hogan threw the book on the floor. He lay back against the pillows propped up against the edge of the lower bunk, and placed the fingers of his right hand against his forehead. It was hot and dripping with sweat. Letting out a deep breath, which hurt, he opened the top button of his pajamas in an attempt to cool off. The temperature outside had to be in the teens, but at the moment, with his fever, Hogan felt like he was in the tropics. Of course, earlier that morning, he had been shivering uncontrollably, and he couldn't figure out what was worse; the chills, or the sweats. No, the worst thing was the comprehension that the German army would soon be flushed out of this sector, that the liberation of Stalag 13 was now just a matter of weeks or at most a few months, and he was no longer in command. "The best of times, the worst of times," he muttered to himself, as he struggled to quiet his fevered brain and rest. However, thoughts of what if scenarios interfered. How am I going to keep everyone safe? What if we get evacuated? What if I die?

A month ago, Hogan didn't have the time to read a year old copy of a censored Life magazine, much less a classic novel by one of his favorite authors. He and his core team had been working overtime rescuing downed fliers, while many of the prisoners from other barracks had been pressed into service, processing them for the return to the front. Fighting was so fierce, that the route to the northern coast was shut down, and now members of the French underground and officers from military intelligence had been taking turns escorting the fliers to safety. Meanwhile, Hogan was being run ragged keeping track of the Allied progress, while trying to keep Klink from going insane with fear. The Kommandant had obviously come to the realization that the war was lost. The question now was when. Despite that, various members of the SS and Gestapo decided to play chicken with the camp…hinting at forced marches or warning Klink to fight for the camp or face deadly consequences. Headquarters had notified Hogan that he was to use his discretion in how to handle the situation, so Hogan, Kinch, and several sergeants had developed battle and evacuation plans for every contingency, knowing in their heart that heavy casualties were a distinct possibility. And then the hammer fell.

Within a few weeks, food shortages had become severe, causing the already overworked and malnourished prison population to develop overstressed immune systems. This led to an outbreak of disease, both gastrointestinal, and respiratory. As the last remaining stash of penicillin was given to the sickest patients in the infirmary, Wilson and his assistants began treating men in their huts, while transforming the recreation hall into another area to quarantine other patients. No one was immune. Men in Barracks two began dropping like flies. LeBeau and Carter came down with stomach problems, while Hammond and Saunders developed a bad cough. The healthy remained to care for the sick, and several days after Hogan had sat for hours at a man's bedside in the infirmary, he too succumbed.

That morning, Wilson officially told the colonel that he was no long capable of fulfilling his duties as both Senior POW officer, and head of the operation. Hogan was hit hard. To have a germ knock him down, after all the risks he had taken during his career, was ironic.

That afternoon, after having been notified that Hogan's condition had taken a turn for the worse, Klink paid the barracks a visit.

"Hogan, I am sorry to hear about you being relieved of duty," Klink said as he was looking for a place to sit. It was obvious to Hogan that the Kommandant was wary of getting too close.

"You can use the chair over by my desk."

"Yes," Klink said. "Where was I? I am, well, concerned." The Kommandant took a good look at Hogan and inwardly cringed. Everyone at the Stalag, including himself, had lost weight; but Hogan appeared drawn, his face pained and sallow.

"Thank you," Hogan answered, surprised.

"I don't recall, since you came here, you ever having anything more than a cold."

"I guess the stress of command finally caught up to me. First there was the bomber group and now this." The late night forays into all kinds of weather. The close calls. The terror of having been captured and interrogated and the terror of the operation being discovered. There were close to one thousand men in camp that relied on his discretion, luck, and skill. All those lives were his responsibility. They hadn't asked to be captured, nor did they ask to be members of an espionage team located behind the lines. Sure, most had agreed to stay on at the camp, but honestly, what choice did they have? He couldn't smuggle everyone out.

"Yes, that must be it," Klink replied. "I'm sorry I can't offer anything to you but sympathy. We're down to nothing; but you know that."

"How are the…?" Hogan began a fit of coughing. After it subsided, he asked. "The guards…how are they?"

"Thank you for asking Hogan. I will pass on your concern. But you are trying to get information from me." Klink wagged his finger at the colonel.

"I'll never stop trying," Hogan grinned weakly.

Klink stood up. "I see you have items to keep yourself occupied."

"Signing off on duty rosters."

Klink noticed the book on the floor and bent over to pick it up. "And reading." He handed it to Hogan.

"I must have read the first line seven or eight times. It's hard to concentrate," Hogan admitted. He opened the first page; then looked up. "Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens. Are you familiar with it Kommandant? Perhaps you read it before your countrymen started burning books."

That memory didn't sit well with Klink. He considered himself a cultured man, and Germany a cultured nation. "Hogan…yes, I've read it. A long time ago."

Suddenly Klink noticed a slight twinkle in Hogan's eye, reminding him of when Hogan, without skipping a beat, could manufacture a story or create a bargain that would somehow wind up with Klink either getting the short end of the stick, or a reprieve from being put on the train heading to the Russian front. Seeing the American as sick as the poor boys in the infirmary gave the Kommandant a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he briefly wondered what the end of the war would bring, and how he and his command would fair without the American colonel to run interference.

"Maybe I should take up knitting." Hogan sat up further, and swung his legs over the bed. "I get up every so often to walk around the office. It helps. I'll start with a scarf. Initial AH of course. Then let's see…Himmler, Goering, Goebbels." Hogan counted them on his finger. I'll need a lot of yarn. Were you aware that if you tell lies often enough, people will believe anything?"

Klink quickly grew angry. He was still, after all, a patriot. "Hogan if you weren't so sick, I would throw you into the cooler for your insolence. And arrogance," he added for good measure. "I wanted to also tell you that there will be no Red Cross packages for the foreseeable future. They can't make it through the lines. And I have to cut electricity. Lights out two hours earlier.

"Then skip a roll call."

"Hogan, you are not in command. There will be no bargaining. Now is the time your men would take advantage. Noon roll call will continue, even if a quarter of the prisoners cannot stand. And go back to bed. That's an order." Klink did not wait for a salute as he headed for the door.

"Kommandant?"

Klink turned around. "Yes."

"Thank you for coming. You know the first sentence in the book. It was best of times; it was the worst of times. The quote seems appropriate," Hogan said. "After all, Hitler turned around your economy."

"Yes, you're right. He did. And he made us proud again."

"But at what cost?"Hogan held out his hand. "Perhaps you would enjoy reading this again," he stated.

Hogan's question seemed to mean something to Klink as the Kommandant slowly walked over and reached for the book. "Perhaps I would," he said.

This short story can be considered part of a companion piece to "Out The Front Gates." I'd like to thank Bits and Pieces and Jennaya for reading over my two entries and giving me the confidence to post.

The knitting reference is from "Tale of Two Cities." Please check a reputable site on the internet for an explanation.


	5. A General Fiasco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the SSSW challenge: A bad night on the road for one of our heroes.

Got this up in the nick of time. Hope there aren't too many mistakes.

A General Fiasco

On my way back to the front, I ran over a general. Mind you, he was a German, and he was already dead. But that didn't negate the fact that I did what I did. To make matters worse, the truck went out of alignment. I could fix a flat, but not that. So here I was, standing at the side of a road, with a broken down truck, and a dead body. My passenger, an Allied intelligence officer that went by the name Smitty, joined me and shook his head.

"Wonder what he was doing out here." he asked.

I shrugged. "Don't know, Lieutenant. Wrong turn, maybe."

There was nothing we could do for him now, so I decided to look for his car. After all, a general doesn't travel alone. At least I've never seen it. There's always a driver, and I didn't want to be caught unawares in case he had gone for help. Judging by the blood spewing out of the general, or what was left of him that is, it appeared his car had been strafed and he had been thrown out during the attack. I reached into the jeep and grabbed a rifle and a flashlight. "Stay in the truck," I told Smitty, as I handed him the spare rifle. "If I'm not back in a half-hour, take the truck. If you see signs of any Germans, take the truck."

"But what about you? If something happens to you, the colonel will have my head."

"No he won't. We take these risks all the time. Besides, I can take care of myself," I assured him. Actually, I was nervous, since despite our control over most of the area, small groups of Germans were still roaming around, shooting at anything and anyone.

There was no one as far as the eye could see; which made sense, since it was now dark. "If there was an accident, they should have put out flares," I complained as I gingerly checked the side of the road for signs of any life. I first checked one side of the road; then the other. After I made sure that area was clear, I headed back in the direction we had come from. I figured that made the most sense, since the general's car may have turned onto this road from an intersection about a mile away. German resistance was known to be active in a town located further down that road. Sure enough, after walking for about 5 minutes, I found the staff car. It had plunged down a small embankment, and by the looks of it, had been pretty shot up. I slowly approached the vehicle, and then checked the driver. He was dead. The general must have survived the attack, and then headed up the road until he collapsed. The radio in the car was dangling by its wires. It was not working. The question was, did the general have time to call for help, or did the radio get destroyed in the attack? I checked it over, but there was no way to tell. I wish Kinch had come with me. I'm sure he would have been able to fix the radio. I scrambled up the embankment, and headed back to the truck.

"The good news is that the driver's dead," I reported to Smitty after I made my way back to the truck. "The general probably collapsed on the road. The bad news is I don't know if the general called for help on the radio."

"So, did you call for help?" Smitty asked.

"The radio was hanging by its wires. It isn't working. Do you think you could fix it?"

"No, I'm just in intelligence. I'm not an engineer."

Of course. I always thought the intelligence people were next to useless. They used to send us the most unreasonable orders, as if operating an espionage operation underneath a POW camp was like another day at the beach. Newkirk would make a fuss, LeBeau would say unintelligible things in French, Carter would look insulted, and Kinch…well, Kinch was Kinch. Sometimes Colonel Hogan would even complain, but usually he would say, "Orders are orders," and figure out some way to make the impossible happen. How no one had gotten killed was beyond belief. And me, well…Although I wouldn't admit it, I always thought I had it easy. I was the colonel's outside man. I'd stay in town when a rescued flier or escapee had to stay with us for an extended period. Good home cooking at Schnitzer's, and sometimes a rendezvous with Heidi, his niece. Yup. I had it easy. Not to say that I didn't have some close calls. Which brought me to my current predicament. Stuck in the dark, on the road, with a broken-down truck, a novice intelligence officer, two rifles, and perhaps the German cavalry on the way to rescue their general.

Smitty spoke perfect German. I began to wonder if we could pass if we stripped the two bodies and donned their uniforms. It would help us if the enemy got to us before our guys showed up. I was supposed to contact the camp when I had safely dropped off Smitty with friendly troops; so hopefully, they would eventually realize we didn't make it and come after us.

With the front so close now, traffic between the camp and Allied lines was as busy as Grand Central Station. This was the third run I had made in two weeks. Smitty had been captured by a small German patrol that had overrun his location. He had been interrogating a few German prisoners, when the group showed up. After the firefight, the German prisoners escaped, and he and two American soldiers were taken prisoner. Fortunately, the truck passed nearby, and some of our friends from the local underground ambushed it, freeing the captives. The two soldiers were taken back to the front soon afterwards, but Smitty, being an intelligence officer, wanted to stay a few days, so he could see more of the operation and report back on all the wonderful things we had accomplished during our stay at Stalag 13. The colonel told him under no circumstances was he to report anything, and if he felt he couldn't keep quiet, he would be stranded in the tunnels until liberation. And, if the colonel found out Smitty had blabbed, he would be gathering intelligence at Leavenworth. Smitty wisely agreed to keep his mouth shut.

"Olsen, what do we do now?" he asked nervously.

I took a deep breath. "First, help me get the general's body into the truck. Then we'll push it off to the side, so it's not visible." As we worked, I wondered if the camp's motor pool sergeant would kill me for losing one of his precious vehicles. Maybe I shouldn't go back, I thought. Unless I could think of an appropriate bribe. Maybe the war would be over before I got back, and I'd be safe. Hopefully, Klink wouldn't conduct one of his stupid inventories. That was one of his favorite pastimes. That and groveling.

Smitty wiped his hands down on his pants. Breathing heavily, he asked, "Now what?"

"We can start walking. The front's about five miles from here."

"All right." He didn't look too happy.

"Or we can wait for Colonel Hogan to order a search party when we don't check in. You're the officer, sir. What do you think?"

"I say we wait."

I nodded. "Well, that's fine. But I have a suggestion."

"I'm open to any suggestions," he replied.

"We should put on their uniforms."

"They're bloody and full of holes," he argued.

"Yes, they are. But it's dark. Hopefully no one will notice. We can then pass as Germans. If they find us, we can get a ride back to the Stalag. You're a German general, after all. If some Americans find us, we get captured; then explain who we are. Someone will vouch for us. And if my buddies find us; well, we get you back to the front, and then I head back."

"You'll be general," Smitty said.

"If that's what you want."

"That's what I want. After all, I'm in intelligence. I speak German, but I've never impersonated one."

We hopped into the back of the truck where we had stashed the general's body. Smitty turned a bit pale as I began to take off the uniform. "Not used to seeing dead bodies, sir?"

"I've never gotten used to it. Not like this, anyway."

"Well, how do I look?" I asked as I finished donning the general's jacket. I pulled off my dog tags, and placed them in my pocket. I replaced them with the German's tags.

"The uniform is swimming on you."

"Occupational hazard," I noted. "Now back to their jeep." We made the second switch of clothes. "We need to hide the driver's body."

"Why?"

"Because if they find this jeep first, and they see the body, they're going to wonder what happened to his clothes," I said patiently.

"Oh. That's right." We returned to the truck and dumped Smitty's uniform in the back. "Your outfit looks better, sir."

"Thanks," he said. "Now, what?"

"We wait. Those were your orders."

"Okay." Smitty grabbed a rifle and sat down on the side of the road.

I shook my head, and plodded after him. "While we are in German uniforms, in case any Krauts show up, it's best not to be too obvious. We should stay hidden, back by the truck." Where do they train these people?

"Oh." Smitty obediently followed me over to the side, where we took cover. "How long do you think before Hogan sends out a search party?"

I made sure I had a view of the road, while still remaining out of sight. "I don't know. He'd give us extra time to get you back to the lines. Maybe until daylight." I cursed myself for not taking another man with us. We could have used the backup. Foster wasn't busy at the moment. He would have made a great companion. Better than the one I had at the moment.

All I heard was a small groan.

"Why don't you try and get some shut-eye, sir. I'll keep watch."

"No. I'm too nervous to sleep."

Well at least he's honest.

"Okay. Then you'll keep watch, and I'll get some shut-eye?" In this business, you learn to sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. I half expected Smitty to order me to stay awake, but he surprised me.

"Um. Go ahead. I'll wake you if I hear anything."

I'm sure you will. "Even if you think it's an animal, wake me up. At any rate, wake me in an hour."

He nodded and poked his head around the side of the truck. I made myself a bed of leaves, and lay down. I had no idea how long I had been sleeping, when I felt my body shake. I quickly sat up. In this business, you learn to wake up in an instant. It could mean the difference between life and death. "Has it been an hour?"

"No. Twenty minutes. Listen."

"I don't hear anything." I poked my head around the truck. I didn't see anything either.

"I have superior hearing. I think it must have something to do with my flare for languages. Shhh. Try again."

Sure enough, on the second try, I could hear a soft rumble. I couldn't imagine who would be driving out this way this late at night. "Get down," I told Smitty, who didn't question my orders. I moved out slightly and tried to get a view of what was coming. As I feared, it appeared to be a German vehicle. They were moving slowly, as if they were searching for something, or someone. "Germans," I whispered.

"Oh, God. I don't want to be captured again."

"Neither do I. The first time wasn't any fun at all," I whispered back.

"They're going to see the truck." Smitty finally showed some intelligence and foresight, as the German's were willing to risk being spotted by the Allies in order to get a good view of the road and the roadside. They were using a portable searchlight. Within minutes we would be discovered.

"We're going to have to show ourselves, sir."

He replied with a small whimper.

"Trust me. I've done this hundreds of times." A little white lie never hurt anyone. "I'll do the talking. Just follow my lead."

"What if they know what he looks like?"

"They'll find us either way. We have to get their attention away from the truck." I came out from behind, and fortunately Smitty followed. We made it to the side of the road before the searchlight could make out the outline of the truck, and began waving our arms.

"Over here!" I yelled in German.

The jeep stopped, and then headed towards us. The occupants saluted. "General, we've been searching for you. When you didn't turn up at HQ on time, they sent out a search party. Who's this?" The driver pointed at Smitty.

"My driver."

"We found your jeep. Are any of you injured?"

"Flesh wounds. They can wait," I quickly replied. "I would like you to drop us off at Luft stalag 13. The Kommandant is an old acquaintance of mine. We can rest and get treated there, rather than head to HQ."

"But with all due respect, sir. General Berkheimer is awaiting your arrival. If we come back without you, after we found you, he'll have our heads, sir."

"Are you questioning my orders, sergeant?" I said in an authoritative and icy voice. Yelling wasn't my style. Sometimes a calm voice was more frightening.

"No, sir. We will take you and your driver to Stalag 13. If you please." He pointed to the back of the jeep. "You two will have to start walking," he said to the soldiers in the back. "And be careful. There a lot of Americans in this sector. As we climbed in the now empty back, the driver turned on the radio. "We've found them," he reported. "We are heading to Luft stalag 13 to spend the night." I could make out the yelling on the other end.

I poked the driver on the shoulder. "I will see you get a commendation. Just take us to Stalag 13."

The driver turned off the radio and put the jeep in gear.

I turned to Smitty. "See corporal. I told you we would be rescued."

"Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to seeing this camp, sir. I hear it is the toughest prison camp in all of Germany. No escapes."

I glared at him. "Now where did you hear that, corporal?"

Seeing that he had obviously said something stupid, Smitty's eyes went wide. "Um, you told me yourself, sir. As we were driving. You mentioned it was in this sector and that you knew the Kommandant."

Good save. "Yes, you are correct. I recall the conversation." We drove for the next few minutes, and I began to think that everything was coming along smoothly when we all heard the sound of a truck heading our way. Oh no, not another one.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turned around. "Someone's coming, sir. We should pull off until we are sure that they are friendly."

"Yes, that would be prudent," I said in my best general's voice. The jeep pulled off, and Smitty and I picked up our weapons and headed towards the tree line.

"Where do you think you're going, corporal? You come here with us. The general hides; not you."

Smitty looked at me, and then apparently resigned to his fate, picked up his rifle and followed the driver. He was on his own now. I just prayed there wouldn't be shots fired.

As the truck grew closer, my stomach began to act up from nerves. I had been assigned to protect Smitty, and return him safely to Allied lines, and now he could be involved in a firefight on the wrong side. Despite everything, I didn't wish him any harm, and I certainly didn't want to disappoint Colonel Hogan. I briefly thought of Carter's stint in the German army. Maybe there was precedent for these scenarios ending well. There was nothing I could do now but watch and hope for the best. With the two German soldiers distracted and waiting for the truck, I slowly crawled along the ground in order to get closer to the road. I propped up my rifle and ready for anything, placed my finger on the trigger. The tension was now becoming unbearable, and I began to sweat.

The truck slowly made its way towards our position, and for once I was glad to see the German emblem on the side. I took my finger off the trigger, and stood up. Too late, I realized what was about to happen. "Lieutenant, get down!" I screamed as I flung myself to the ground. In the confusion, I saw Smitty take a flying leap off to the side, while the two Germans that were escorting us, were caught unawares. They had no time to get off a shot, and fell to the ground. "Guys, don't shoot! It's us!" I yelled. I scrambled over to Smitty, who was on the ground ,in shock. I rolled him over, checking for wounds.

"I'm okay," he squeaked. "What the hell happened?"

I smiled, and helped him to his feet. "The cavalry, sir." I said as Colonel Hogan, followed by Newkirk, Carter and two members of the underground, came over to us.

Newkirk and Carter slapped me on the back. "Good thing you yelled," Newkirk said.

"Well, now." Colonel Hogan looked us over. "Lucky for you, you weren't killed. That would have been an awful lot of paperwork."

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?" the colonel asked.

I told him. He nodded. "It could have happened to anyone. What's important is that you two are safe."

"One question, Colonel. How come you started shooting, seeing as you had the emblem on the truck, and you're in German uniforms?

"We had a feeling you were out here somewhere. We wanted to give you every chance to make it in case we didn't find you first. And now we had better get this truck back safe. I already have to think of how to convince you know who to forget about the broken down truck." The Colonel turned to Smitty. "I didn't think you could move that fast, Lieutenant."

"Me neither, sir. Um, I'd like to say that Sergeant Olsen deserves a commendation. I mean, I know he ran over the general, but besides that, he really knew how to handle everything. If he wasn't here, I would probably be dead now."

"I'll take that under consideration," Hogan replied, he looked at me and smiled.

"Gee, sir. I appreciate that," I said to Smitty. I guess the guy may have been naïve when it came to my line of work, but in the long run, he wasn't that bad, for an officer, that is.


	6. A Family Mantra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An entry for the SSSW contest. An unnamed narrator discovers the worth of his father's old advice, when camp personnel forget to put things away.

A Family Mantra

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Don't go up empty-handed," he would say to me, as well as my siblings. This mantra applied to everyday situations, and actually in every direction. In, out, up, down…it didn't matter. There was laundry to be carried up stairs. Garbage to go outside. Extra rolls of toilet paper to go downstairs. School books to go in our room. Of course, being children, we groused and grumbled. It made for a neater and more efficiently run household, that's for sure. But in retrospect, I now believe that this advice held a deeper meaning, which as an adult I'm just beginning to understand.

I am a forward gunner by training, and a medic by default. My plane was shot down over Germany in May of 1943, and within a few weeks, I found myself transported with a truckload of other sergeants to what was known as one of the toughest prison camps in all of Germany. Needless to say, we were all scared shitless.

The guards from the transit camp rudely ordered us out of the open truck, and pushed us into formation. I noticed a small group of prisoners casually stroll over to the truck and begin to unload the duffle bags that had been provided to us by the Red Cross. Although our stay at the Dulag Luft was frightening and unpleasant, it was nice to see this little bit of humanity provided to us. At least we would be able to start our permanent stay with our own deck of cards and shaving supplies.

A fat sergeant holding a clipboard waddled over to us, and told us to step forward as he called our name. To tell you the truth, he didn't look very menacing. As he concluded, a German officer holding a riding crop came out of a building and hurried over. He walked up and down the line silently. This must be the Kommandant, I thought. Sure enough, he introduced himself.

"I am Kommandant Klink. For you the war is over. This will be your home for the duration. I am strict but humane. If you follow the rules, you will not get hurt and…"

His speech was interrupted by an American colonel who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He got right into the Kommandant's face. It was obvious the colonel was not cowed by this high-ranking German officer. I'm sure I was not the only man wondering what the American colonel was doing at this camp.

"Forget to invite me to the party, sir?" The colonel stepped back a foot, and wrapped his arms around himself. He then turned to face the formation, and in unison we all saluted and stood at attention.

This seemed to annoy the Kommandant, who had not warranted this respect. "This is Colonel Hogan, the Senior POW Officer. Any complaints or concerns go through him. After this morning, there should be no reason for any of you to have any communication with me. Schultz, find bunks for these men." At that, the Kommandant turned and made his way back into his office.

But I digress. Yes, I was a gunner. However, after a week in camp I had to report to the infirmary to get a bad splinter removed. While there, I met Anderson, Sergeant Wilson's assistant. Well, we hit it off. In conversation, I mentioned that my father was a doctor and that I often joined him on house calls. To make a long story short, he convinced me to hang around and learn the ropes from Wilson. "We can always use more help," he said. This seemed like a fine idea, and after getting the okay from the colonel, I joined the medical staff. After discovering what really went on in camp, I decided the infirmary was safer than going outside the wire. Besides, foreign languages and I never got on well.

The infirmary was kept well-organized and reasonably clean. The same could not be said for most of the barracks. Aside from making sure all tunnel entrances were well-hidden, the prisoners became quite careless. Laundry was often hung across the room, and the dirt and mud from the compound seemed to find its way into every nook and cranny. Tunnel work made the barracks worse. As the lowest man on the totem pole, I was unfortunately charged with making barracks inspections on behalf of the medical staff. This did not sit well with the inhabitants.

"Hey, leave us alone. Don't you know an Englishman's home is his castle," said a private as he stubbed out his cigarette on the floor.

"If this was an English castle, their next address would be the Tower of London," I joked with the barrack chief.

"They've been digging out tunnel five for a week," he explained, as if that was an excuse.

"Get us maid service," one of the residents suggested. That got a laugh out of his bunkmates.

I grinned. A little levity never hurt anyone, particularly in this environment. I had seen the camp population grow deadly serious very quickly. They were used to turning on a dime, and thinking fast. But, I did have a job to do. "By the authority vested in me by Wilson, Uncle Sam, and Colonel Hogan, would ya at least clean up the floor? The cleaner it is, the less time the krauts will spend in here if they pull a surprise inspection. And Wilson doesn't want to treat anyone for tetanus or typhus."

After a bit of grumbling they promised to straighten up, and I headed over to the next to the last hut. After that inspection was complete, I had one more to do. I wasn't looking forward to this. This last hut was inhabited by a group of independent-minded men. They took the most chances of any of us, and they had the most to lose. The last thing they wanted was to have a medic in their face about neatness. But despite the fact that Colonel Hogan resided there as well, I played no favorites. I gently tapped on the door and waited for someone to answer.

"Hey, Doc." Garth stepped aside and let me in. All the medics were called doc by everyone in camp. I wondered how they kept us all straight. "Someone sick?"

"Inspection," I answered, showing my clipboard. After quickly glancing around the hut, I sighed in frustration. "Come on, guys. You're not making my job any easier." There was no sign of contraband, but the common room was so disorganized, I couldn't figure out how the men kept their possessions straight. The clutter would invite a closer inspection of the barracks if the Germans decided to conduct a sweep. "What if the colonel sees this mess," I said hopefully. "Don't you think he'd have a fit?" Thankfully, I hadn't been on the receiving end of his temper. I had heard rumors that Newkirk was almost kicked off the team for an indiscretion.

"Ah, he doesn't care, as long as the operation stays secret. Anyway, he can talk his way out of anything. Besides, medically, everything in here is fine," Garlotti said as he deftly ran circles around me when I tried to inspect his bunk. "The rest of the stuff is our business."

"There's a place for everything, and everything has a place," I noted as I made some checkmarks on my clipboard." Another one of my father's favorite sayings. "Where is everyone? In the tunnels? No don't tell me. I don't want to know." I hadn't seen the core group outside, so they must have either been in the tunnels, or out. We had time before the next roll call, so I wasn't worried.

Goldman sidled over and followed me around. "Kinch is down below if you need to see him."

That told me the rest were outside the wire. I stayed out of Hogan's office, which I am sure was clean and well-organized, and was about ready to leave, when I heard knocking coming from the bunk entrance. It flew open, and a clearly rattled and out-of-breath Carter scrambled up the ladder.

"Newkirk…shot."

He was so distraught; he didn't realize I was standing right there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the boys quickly leave the hut, probably to head over to the infirmary to tell Wilson.

Carter ran right past me and opened the door to the colonel's office. I was about to head down the ladder to see if I could help, when I heard him start cursing.

"It was right here the last time. Where is it? Oh, crap."

I assume Carter ran out of the office, since by the time I hit the floor of the tunnel, he was almost on top of me. Newkirk was on a table, writhing in pain from what looked to be a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Kinch was holding him down, while Hogan was attempting to staunch the bleeding with a couple of clean (thankfully) bandages that Kinch kept in a small first aid kit next to the radio. LeBeau had disappeared, while Olsen hovered by.

"Wilson's coming, Colonel," I said as I approached the table. "What happened?"

Hogan backed away and I gingerly lifted the bandage to check the wound. I could see metal in there, which would need to come out. I decided to wait for Wilson to show up before checking for an exit wound.

"Buckshot. " Hogan replied. "Some civilian started shooting at us. Carter, did you get the sulfa?"

"I couldn't find it," Carter answered meekly. He then backed off to the side.

"What do you mean you couldn't find it?" Hogan kept his voice down; but he was clearly angry. "We're out of penicillin."

They had delivered the last few doses of the antibiotic to a member of the underground a few days ago. Several men had been shot by a patrol, and London hadn't been able to make a drop since then.

"I know, sir. I looked everywhere. It should have been in your foot locker. That's where it was the last time. Just like you said. When LeBeau was shot. And I brought it right down. Remember? But then the wound was just a scratch, and then we got penicillin for Danzig and LeBeau, but they were okay."

Hogan put his hand on Carter's chest then said, "Stop."

Carter quickly shut his mouth.

"Find it!" Hogan ordered. "I would have put it back in my foot locker. That's where it belongs."

"I'll check," Olsen said as he headed for the ladder. "Sometimes you need another set of eyes."

Wilson had arrived with some sterile instruments, and between the two of us, we determined all of the buckshot was still embedded in Newkirk's shoulder. "This has to come out, Newkirk. But, you should be fine."

"Go ahead." Newkirk gritted his teeth and prepared for the pain.

Wilson gave Newkirk a shot of morphine and then a clean cloth to bite down on. "You got the sulfa ready?"

"Can't find it."

Wilson turned to face me. "What do you mean they can't find it? We're supposed to have an emergency supply upstairs. Go back over to the infirmary and bring some back," he told me. The sergeant then began grumbling about disorganized flight crews as he began to gingerly get the shot out of Newkirk's body.

Wilson didn't like to store medicines down below due to the dampness, but I couldn't figure out why Wilson didn't have any sulfa in the medical bag that traveled with him. I took the tunnel route to the infirmary, and told Anderson what happened while he fetched the infirmary's supply. Now that I knew that Newkirk would be okay, my stomach had calmed down. "It was probably left somewhere down in the tunnels. That day was such a mess; I wouldn't be surprised if they forgot about it," Anderson told me.

I thanked him, and quickly made my way back through the tunnel. Wilson was still working on Newkirk when I returned. I showed him the packet. "Here, you need the practice," he said as he handed me his instrument. I took it from him, and then took a deep breath.

Colonel Hogan was holding Newkirk's hand. As I dug into the wound, the corporal squeezed hard and grimaced. "Almost done," the colonel said quietly. "Hang in there."

I took out the last piece of lead, and let Wilson check my work. "Great job," he grinned as he started to stitch up the wound.

As I bent down to retrieve the bloody gauze and rags that had been tossed onto the floor, I was joined by Colonel Hogan. "Good job. I know we can count on you."

"Thank you, sir," I replied, my heart swelling with pride.

"I'll need you to…" Suddenly, Colonel stopped talking. I followed his eyes to the wall closest to the table, where he had spotted a box. "For crying out loud," he muttered to himself. A second later, he stood up, holding a box of sulfa in his hands.

"Look at that!" Carter exclaimed. "You found it! Now how did that get there?"

"It was left there." Kinch commented. "That's obvious."

"That was months ago." Now that the crisis was over, LeBeau had returned. "Carter, you forgot to take it back."

"No I didn't. I handed the box over to the colonel when I came back. Remember?"

"I wasn't there," Kinch said. "I was in the infirmary with the flu. Baker was covering. He was busy trying to get the penicillin delivery."

"Don't blame me, I was the one shot," LeBeau said, conveniently forgetting that he had only been grazed.

Newkirk couldn't answer, being groggy from the morphine.

"It doesn't matter who left it there," Colonel Hogan said quietly. "It needs to go back where it belongs."

If I wasn't mistaken, the colonel looked embarrassed. Wilson and I exchanged a glance. "You know," I started to say. "My father always said, "Don't go up empty-handed. And there's a place for everything, and everything has a place."

"Words to live by." Wilson patted Newkirk. "We're done here. He should be fine. But, you'll have to get him upstairs. I'd call London and try and get more penicillin, sooner rather than later," he added.

"I'll talk to them." Hogan walked over to the radio. As he passed by, he gave me an odd look, and then a slight grin. "Your father is a smart man," he told me.

"Thank you, sir." I then whispered. "And your secret is safe with me."

Stays at the transit center usually lasted about a week. Before being sent to their camp, prisoners at the transit center were issued a Red Cross satchel that held basic supplies, including toiletries, a bible, a deck of cards, etc. (Various internet sources)

There are numerous sources on the internet, including government documents, that detail medical conditions in prison camps. wwwdotb24dotnet is a good one. Also check the veteran's administration. The information I found there has information on statistics and death rates, comparing the European theater to the Pacific theater.

I'd like to thank Bits and Pieces and Jennaya for giving me the confidence to post my two entries.

Danzig and LeBeau were injured in the sixth season episode "That's No Lady, That's My Spy." Could never figure out why they didn't call for a medic. You would think they would have emergency meds down below, so I made up the dampness excuse.

And yes...I stole the advice from my own family. Wish mine would follow it.


	7. Everyone's a Critic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they should be thankful for what they have. *********2013 PBA winner. Bronze for best short comedy.

Everyone's a Critic

1965

An undisclosed location somewhere in the United States.

A large group of men stood mingling outside a screening room, discussing what they had just viewed. Taking advantage of the free appetizers, they munched away as waiters refilled their drinks. Eventually, the men formed several separate groups. Years had not changed the composition of the different cliques. Over in the far corner, closest to the buffet table, stood 9 men, some of which seemed to have the habit of frequently glancing out the window or watching out the slightly ajar door.

Another group settled around the bar. They seemed more relaxed, and spent the time regaling each other with stories from times past. Occasionally, a friendly argument would break out, but usually it was quickly squelched with a look from the tall, dark and handsome man munching from the nut bowl.

"I don't like it. I'm not that stupid. Why did they do that? Sheesh. I have a master's degree in chemistry for crying out loud."

"They didn't make you stupid," answered another gentleman. This one was drinking warm beer, and kept his eye focused on the waitresses walking around with hors d'oeuvres. "Just naïve and a bit of a goofball. Personally, I found you quite charming."

"That's easy for you to say. You seem quite pleased with the whole sordid business."

"Well, they did use a good-looking bloke."

"At least he looked the part," mumbled another man. "People are going to say, what was he doing there? And he seems to be second in command? That would have been impossible. It doesn't fit historically either, and so on. Just you wait. I still don't get why they had to do that. Don't get me wrong. The actor is great. But…" he shook his head.

"I think it is about time they did something like that. Your country needs to work on its race relations. My gripe was the language. First of all, I speak perfect German. And they should have had the Germans speaking German. Like in that show Combat. The French speak French. The Germans speak German." The speaker, a short man, took a bite of the pig in a blanket on his plate, and spit it out. "What is this? This isn't fit for a dog. It's certainly not fit for human consumption."

"Good old-fashioned American cooking," the chemistry expert answered. "And your country should work on not surrendering, and then asking us for help."

"You take that back!" The shorter man replied as he gave the offender of his dignity and country a shove.

The nut fan put down the bowl. "Knock it off," he yelled in his best command voice.

"None of you have any right to complain," said a man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. "I was barely there. My family is going to be upset."

"Well," said the nut fan, who appeared to be the group leader. "That was the point, wasn't it?" The other men started laughing. "It did seem like you were never there."

"Yeah," the man replied. "But, they got one thing wrong. You always knew where I was. Remember?"

The leader nodded, and then took a swig of his drink. "I know one thing; I never kissed anyone unless it was for the common good. And my wife is going to have a fit when she sees these."

The short man poked the leader. "You will have a lot of explaining to do."

"Me too," the chemistry expert complained. "I was always a lieutenant. Why'd they have to demote me?"

"Because," said an older, heavy man who had sidled up to the group unnoticed. "These writers and television men know nothing. They weren't there, and they didn't think to get our opinions beforehand. You don't want these?" He asked the Frenchman, who shook his head.

"Help yourself, my German friend."

The man shoved the remaining pigs in a blanket in his mouth. "Mmmm. I must say, I knew a lot more than he did. But I didn't say anything."

"You were a real credit to the outfit." The Englishman patted the German on the stomach. "And they seemed to cast you perfectly."

"Evening," said a bald man who had also shown up unannounced.

"Hey, you guys by the door. You're falling down on the job," the colonel pointed out.

"You keep the look-out for once!" replied one of the men by the door. He made a face and then headed for the punchbowl.

"Where's your monocle?" asked the Englishman.

The bald man gave the other a rather nasty look, and then pushed his way over to the leader of the group. "Colonel. This is an outrage. An absolute travesty, I tell you. First of all, I have always had perfect vision, and I never played the violin."

"Well, apparently Klink couldn't either." This remark, which came from the gentleman who was rarely shown, encouraged an exchange of laughter among the tight-knit group, as well as those within hearing range.

"Don't interrupt the man," the colonel remarked. "Let him continue. Go ahead, Kommandant."

"Ex-Kommandant," the heavy-set man mumbled.

"I never walked that way, with a riding crop under my arm. How ridiculous. And I certainly was not a coward, like, that, that…"

"Bad impression of an aristocratic, German hero of the First World War," said another man who had just entered the room.

"I'm telling you men, stop lollygagging around the punch bowl and do your job. Let me know when the Krauts are heading this way, will ya?"

A few of the other men, grumbling all the way about taking orders from a colonel when they were no longer in the army, gathered by the door, while several took their places by the window, all the while munching on shrimp wrapped with bacon.

"General." The colonel raised his glass.

"Colonel." He patted the man's stomach. "Looks like you've gained a few in the last two decades. Your uniform is a bit tight."

The American colonel looked down at the German general with disdain and a bit of amusement. "How'd you like your doppelganger?"

"Disgraceful. Imagine using somewhat like that to portray such an esteemed member of our forces." The German colonel shook his head in disgust.

"Stop groveling," the general told the German colonel, who stepped quickly back.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"I did not like him at all. Not at all. Although I will admit, his scar made him appear," the General snapped his fingers. "Help me here. Appear more?"

"Manly?" the chemistry expert offered.

"Aristocratic," said the Brit.

"Noble," offered the heavy-set man.

"Clumsy," said the American colonel.

"Hooogann!" the German colonel rattled off an extension of the name with no trouble.

"First of all, that's not my name. But you sure had that down; exactly like the real Kommandant. No, I meant fake Kommandant. You know what I meant. Get me another drink, will ya?"

"Another Kraut's coming, Colonel!"

He looked up at the ceiling. "Finally," he whispered, as he put down his drink. Pointing to the lookout that did his job, the colonel said, "Give that man another one of whatever he's drinking. Put it on my tab."

"But, sir, the drinks are on the house."

His eyes now like ice, the colonel turned and faced the man who had walked into the room, while the three other Germans stepped back, and everyone else quickly became silent.

"Major. I didn't realize you were sent an invitation."

"I was not sent an invitation, Colonel. Yet, here I am."

"So, when did they let you out?"

The major laughed. "Long, long ago. But you wouldn't have known that. I kept myself under the radar, so-to-speak."

"So was this party," the former Kommandant said. He stepped forward. Looking down at the newcomer, he drummed up some new-found bravery. For he had to admit, he was not as brave as he said. "You aren't welcome here. Now shoo." He waved his hand.

"Mon Dieu, you have a lot of chutzpah, showing up here, and ruining everyone's evening." Several other men nodded in agreement at the Frenchman's words.

"I'll handle him." The colonel pushed his men aside. "How did you get here?"

The newcomer ignored him, and went over to the bar. "Schnapps." The bartender looked at the colonel, as if asking for permission to serve the clearly uninvited guest. He poured the drink after receiving a slight nod.

After taking a sip, the man began to talk. "I have my sources, you see. Mainly; another network."

Upon hearing this, a man in a grey-flannel suit turned pale, and fled the room.

The British man sidled up to the colonel and whispered into his ear, "I still have my trusty pencil sharpener on me. Blimey, at least they got that right."

"Not now," the colonel whispered back.

"Now I have you. I have you all!" The German major let out a sinister and sadistic laugh.

"Frankly, there's nothing whatsoever you can do about it," the Kommandant replied as he wagged his finger.

"Amen to that," said the former general.

"You three are at the top of my list. Cavorting with the enemy in the present, and being stupid enough in the past to allow him to pull the wool over your eyes."

Sensing an imminent altercation, the heavy man who knew something, put down his plate, and pushed his way forward through the watching crowd. "The war has been over for twenty years now, Major. We lost. It was a disaster for our country and the world. Your loyalties are misplaced, and I suggest you either leave now, or if you wish to join the festivities, shut up and act like a human being."

This speech from the unlikeliest of sources floored the crowd and momentarily silenced the major.

"Well-said, sir." The Brit patted the former guard on the back, while others in the room mumbled their approval.

This seemed to take out all the air in the major's bombastic balloon. He looked down at the floor and sighed. "I did some bad things. Terrible things. But I did my time." Looking up again at the crowd, he said, "I demand, however, that I have some say in the matter. Script ideas, and so forth."

"Who said we want him to join the festivities," the colonel, wiping his hair out of his eyes, commented. "I don't suppose you've seen the pilot and the episodes, Major?" he said, eyes twinkling.

"Why no, I haven't seen them yet, Colonel. Why do you ask?"

"Because, Major. You aren't in them."

"What?"

"Close your mouth, Major. You look like a codfish." The former Kommandant then explained. "You see, we never thought your role in what transpired, amounted to anything. You were a minor nuisance. That's all. And really, the Gestapo rarely, if ever, paid any attention to a small work camp. Which reminds me. Can't we get them to change the number and location of the camp? That's bound to confuse everyone."

"Believe me, I tried." The American colonel shook his head. "No matter what I said, they refused to listen. Thirteen sounds unlucky, they said. And funny. And then they had to use the town. Those poor men in the real camp suffered enough. Now people are going to think they didn't have it so bad. I bet they sue."

"Let's hope not," the general added. "There go our royalties."

"Good point." The American colonel nodded.

"I have another beef, while we're complaining," said a tall, thin man with glasses who

approached the colonels and their group. "I'm a history teacher now, and I really don't think that a prison camp had female secretaries. Not that I wouldn't have minded."

"Here, here," said a few members of the crowd, while the American colonel nodded.

"That's correct," the ex-Kommandant replied. "I had male clerks and aides." He sighed. "I do like that lovely young lady they hired to play the secretary."

"You can say that again," the American colonel agreed. "But, I really think people are going to complain right and left about historical inaccuracies. I'm with the professor, here, on that one."

"Teacher, sir. Just a high school teacher." The man shook his head. "I don't agree with you, sir. People are going to watch this for the laughs. They're not going to care about history. You can't combine serious war themes with a comedy. Who would watch that?"

"I would," said one of the directors, who had wordlessly entered the room in time to overhear the conversation. "But, the network and the other guys aren't interested. "Who are you?" he asked, pointing at the major.

"This," the American colonel said, "is a former Gestapo agent that used to hang around the area, making a nuisance of himself; arresting civilians and trying to impress the women in town."

"How would you know that?" the major sneered.

"I used to hang around town, remember? " The colonel, who was quite tall, looked down upon the now-irate ex-Gestapo agent. "You never got anywhere, did you? All they saw were your shortcomings." This elicited hearty laughter from the group, but incensed the major. His face turned red, and he stormed out of the room.

"Good riddance," the Brit said.

The director watched this display with acute interest. He whipped out a notebook and jotted down a few notes.

"Hey, you're not thinking of adding a Gestapo character to the mix, are you? That's really pushing it." The colonel attempted to glance at the notebook, which the producer snapped shut.

"We'll see," the producer answered, as he grabbed a drink. He used it to wash down a very dry hors d'oeuvre he had grabbed off a waiter's tray. "I'm out of here. Oh, and a word of warning to all of you. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. You're making mountains out of molehills. Don't be a kvetch, and don't look a gift-horse in the mouth." He headed towards the exit, leaving the war veterans with a final look of warning.

"Well, he had nerve," the general exclaimed.

"Maybe he's right," the chemistry expert said. "No one is going to be looking at a history book at the same time, are they?"

"I think he holds all the cards, right gents?" the Brit added.

The colonel nodded. "I'm not happy about it, but I think you fellas are right. Hey," his face brightened. "Maybe if we stop complaining and cooperate some more, we'll get to meet the secretary? "

"I wouldn't mind more parties, like this one." The heavyset man took another hors d'oeuvre off the tray and devoured it in one gulp. "Maybe next time they'll give us a dinner!"

The American colonel smiled. "You keep hoping, big guy." Gee, I wonder if the guys helping with "McHale's Navy" ever got a dinner.

****** Gene Reynolds, one of the directors of Hogan's Heroes, also worked on MASH.


	8. Horsing Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogan is forced to use an alternate means of transportation to avoid capture. 2014 PBA winner. Silver: best short comedy. 2014 PBA nominee: Best portrayal of a canon character. (Hogan)

I'd like to thank Missy the Least for putting this plot bunny in my head.

Horsing Around

Hogan looked at Crittendon as if the British officer had suddenly sprouted a second head. "You want me to ride a horse? Are you nuts? When you said you found us transportation, I thought you meant a couple of motorcycles!"

"My dear, boy. Every good British officer knows how to ride these noble creatures." Crittendon raised his eyebrow, chuckled, and stated the obvious."You don't know how to ride. Don't worry, Hogan. It's as easy as falling off a log. And besides, if we walk, they'll spot us. You said that yourself."

"I'm going to die," Hogan muttered under his breath as he grabbed the reins. "Crittendon, there's something wrong with the saddle. It's missing that… that…thing that looks like a…you know."

"The horn?" Crittendon laughed. "That's from a western saddle. These are German jumping saddles. Kieffer, if I'm not mistaken."

"Great. Just great. One less thing to hold onto." Hogan placed his left foot into the stirrup, and then, as he had seen in westerns, lifted his body and attempted to swing his right leg over the side of the animal. "Oof!" The colonel fell, left leg still dangling in the stirrup. "My body's not made that way," he complained. The horse began shifting; causing the hapless colonel to be dragged along with it.

Crittendon, who had deftly mounted his beast, stared at Hogan with amusement. He moved his horse alongside Hogan's and calmed it down. "Try again, Hogan," he encouraged. "Get a bit more leverage, and you should be able to swing that leg over. Funny, I never had any problem with flexibility. Americans rely too much on cars, and not enough on their own two feet. Chop, chop. We haven't got all day."

Hogan glared at Crittendon; but the British officer was correct. They needed to get out of the area, and this was their transportation. The horse snorted as the colonel gamely made a second attempt. This time, he somehow managed to get his right leg up on the saddle, leaving it bent at a very uncomfortable angle. As the horse moved slightly, causing Hogan's pulse rate to increase rapidly, he gingerly slid his right leg over the horse's side. "I think I pulled a groin muscle," he griped as he scooted over a bit to center himself. As he did that, Hogan made the mistake of looking down. "Oh, dear God." He quickly looked straight ahead. "I didn't realize it was so high up."

Crittendon may not have been blessed with common sense; but he was blessed with superb hearing. "High up! Really. You can't be afraid of a little height. You're climbing ladders all the time. For goodness sake, man…you're a pilot. Obviously, you've had to jump out of planes, and do all those nasty things you have to do to join our ranks." Crittendon shook his head, and then gently pressed his boots against the horse's flesh. His mare took off on a slow walk.

"When you're in a plane, you're surrounded by metal. And when the plane is going up in flames, you don't think about heights," Hogan answered loudly as he copied Crittendon's movements. To his amazement, his horse walked forward. "And ladders aren't alive; swishing tails, snorting-you know what I'm talking about."

Crittendon turned his head. "No, I don't…horses are…" Crittendon stopped speaking. He had spotted the German staff car coming down the road. "Hogan, the troop convoy!"

Hogan forgot his fear and turned around. "We have to move. Now what?"

"Gallop," Crittendon stated. "Just do what I do." He bent down slightly, pressed his feet against his horse, and flicked the reins. Without warning, his horse took off on a full run.

"Wait, I haven't figured out how to steer this thing!" Hogan yelled. His horse, sensing its rider's fear, and not wanting to be left behind, followed. "Crittendon, what do I do?" Hogan was now hanging onto the mane for dear life, his derrière bouncing up and down with the movement. He tried to time the bouncing, but the horse was galloping too fast. Oh, that's going to leave a mark, he thought as he felt his body sliding back and forth. He had to admit he was too terrified to look behind to see where the staff car in front of the convoy was in relation to him and Crittendon. Finally, he noticed the trail leading into the woods that he and Crittendon had seen before the group captain "borrowed" the two animals from a paddock. Fortunately, the horses were already saddled up; their aristocratic owners nowhere in sight.

Crittendon looked behind him, and to his delight, noticed Hogan quickly catching up. "By jove, man. I think you've got the hang of it!"

"Yes, like you have the hang of escaping," Hogan yelled back. "Where are the Krauts?"

"We're losing them. Not to worry. They can only go so fast."

Hogan tried to clock the race in his head. He felt he was moving at about 25 miles per hour, but the convoy was forced to drive more slowly due to bomb damage. They were evading potholes, and sure enough, he figured there had to be daylight between him and the convoy. This thought calmed him down a bit; as the wind whipped his hair, and pollen made his eyes water and itch. He gingerly moved one hand to wipe the dust out of his left eye, but quickly put it back. No way I'm letting go.

Crittendon's horse had turned and was heading into the area leading into the trail. Fortunately, Hogan's animal came with autopilot, and it just blindly followed the lead horse.

"Coming up to fence!" he heard Crittendon yell.

"Fence? Go around, Crittendon. Go around! That's an order!"

"Sorry, Hogan. I have seniority. You'll have to jump," Crittendon replied.

Hogan swore that Crittendon seemed totally delighted at the prospect of flying through the air without wings. The English group captain, who was so clumsy and inept in their previous meetings, now seemed to have no care in the world. Yards in front of him, Hogan watched as Crittendon's horse took the three-foot fence perfectly. The horse was long and flat, and Crittendon appeared to be one with the animal. Hogan was reminded of a ballet dancer performing a grande jete across the stage. Why that thought popped into his head was a mystery, as he now realized there was no turning back. He was going to have to jump the fence, or die trying. As his mare approached, Hogan shut his eyes tight, prayed and hung on for dear life. He felt the animal land on the other side, and miraculously, he managed to hang on and not fly off.

The horse slowed down, and trotted a few yards. Hogan found Crittendon, still astride his mount, waiting patiently for him to arrive.

"Well, I can't say much for your form, Hogan, but it did the trick."

Hogan waited for his trembling to subside. Breathing heavily, he spoke. "I think we lost the convoy. Now that we have cover, we should wait here to make sure they pass." I'm going to personally get you demoted if I ever have to do this again.

Crittendon nodded in agreement. "You see, Hogan. I was right to take the horses. We certainly would have been spotted in that meadow. No place to hide at all. Not even flat."

Hogan was forced to agree. There were no trees or bushes to hide behind; the grass was short and charred from previous battles, and the stables were too far. Germans accompanying the convoy on foot would have spotted them within minutes. "You were right," he whispered.

"Sorry, old boy. I didn't catch what you said."

"You were right," Hogan repeated; this time a bit louder.

"That's the spirit."

"We should get the horses into the woods so the foot patrols don't hear them or spot them somehow." Hogan was about to ride into the woods, when Crittendon held up his hand.

"I'll take them in a bit farther and tie them up, while you take watch. Get off."

Hogan paled. Now that he had successfully mounted a horse, galloped and jumped a fence without breaking every bone in his body, he realized he had no idea how to get off. He had seen many westerns in his youth, as well as right before the war, but his mind hit a blank when he tried to recall how the actors had dismounted.

"You have to get down sometime, old boy. Come on. Chop, chop. We haven't all day!" Crittendon swiftly and nimbly got off his horse. "Just do the opposite of getting on." He shook his head in exasperation, then muttering something about Americans, movies, and not learning from history, he tied his horse's reins onto a tree then walked over to where Hogan was waiting.

"A horn would have made this easier," Hogan said as he slowly began swinging his right leg back over the saddle. Fortunately, this time, Crittendon was holding the horse's reins, stopping the animal from moving. Hogan was tall, and he somehow managed to keep his left leg in the stirrup while his right foot touched the ground. Any shorter, and he would have had to release his left leg and slide or jump down. "I don't know how short people manage this," he said. His foot was stuck. Holding on to the saddle with his right hand; he used his left to extract his left foot from the stirrup.

Crittendon didn't comment, although his eyes were twinkling with amusement. He was a kind enough soul to not get smug at seeing Hogan embarrassed or frightened. But, he definitely would have a story to tell once he returned home, and he was a bit satisfied that there was something he could do that Hogan could not.

Meanwhile, Hogan was about to fling himself down on the ground and watch the road in the far distance to see if the convoy and its patrol had safely passed. He couldn't wait to get back to camp, where he felt safe and in control. He took two steps and almost fell. "Owww." Hogan's body hurt in places that had never hurt before. His lower back throbbed from bouncing around on the hard saddle. His thigh and groin muscles burned, and his buttocks were numb. He dropped to the ground and put his pain out of his mind as he watched for the Germans. Thankfully, he spied the last of convoy passing by, and for the first time in a while, he felt safe; until he realized he had to stand up, which was easier said than done. He managed to push himself onto his hands and knees, and then sat back on his heels. Normally, he would have been able to bounce right up, but this time, he was forced to use the ground and his hands to stand.

"Hogan!"

The colonel jumped and whipped out his pistol. Seeing it was Crittendon who had snuck up behind him, he put it away. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry. Can we take the horses back with us? They would be quite useful, what? Suppose we rescue a wounded airman. Fling him over the saddle and off you go!" Crittendon waited for Hogan's response.

"No." Hogan didn't bother asking how Crittendon planned on hiding and feeding the horses. There was no point in ever trying to explain to Crittendon that his well-intentioned but insane plans were usually hopeless. The man never listened. "No," Hogan repeated. "Let them loose. Hopefully, they'll find their way home and not get slaughtered for food if someone sees them." Hogan immediately regretted his words, as he saw Crittendon turn pale. "I didn't mean that, Rodney. They'll be fine. The troops are gone. Besides, they've been well taken care of, and haven't been eaten yet." Hogan chided himself silently for putting his foot in his mouth, yet again.

"Right." Crittendon didn't argue, which made Hogan suspicious. But, the group captain did as Hogan ordered and turned the horses loose. He gave each a pat on the rump, and the animals took off. "I hope you're correct, Hogan. I can't bear the thought of them being turned into horsemeat for Nazis." He looked sadly at Hogan, and then began to walk.

"Wrong way. It's this way." Hogan pointed north.

Crittendon turned around and headed in the proper direction, and then stopped and waited for Hogan to catch up. He noticed that Hogan was in pain. "Do you want me to carry you? We can make better progress. I got a special award in the fireman carry at my first aid course, you know."

"I'm fine," Hogan said, thinking he would never live it down if he was carried back into camp on Crittendon's shoulders. He continued to walk-bow-legged and in pain-slowly back to the Stalag. By the time they approached the tree stump, it was dark, and the two crouched down in the brush in order to avoid the searchlights that had just been turned on. Hogan took a deep breath, and then when the time was right, opened up the stump and ordered Crittendon to climb down. After the next pass of lights, he had no other choice but to climb down as well, cringing at every move of his body.

"We had a bit of adventure," Hogan heard Crittendon gleefully tell the men waiting in the tunnel. "I dare say, Hogan is a bit hurt." The surprised and frightened reactions he expected to hear from his men, as they discovered Crittendon in their midst, never materialized. Once his men heard that Hogan was injured, their attention immediately turned towards their commanding officer.

"What happened? Was he shot?" LeBeau asked with a hint of panic in his voice.

Hogan then heard an unidentified prisoner say he was heading through the tunnel system to fetch Wilson, the camp's medic.

Within seconds, Kinch, Newkirk and Carter had appeared at the bottom of the ladder.

"We got you sir," Carter said. "Take it easy." Three pairs of strong hands easily lifted the colonel off the ladder before he could reach the ground.

"Put me down! Put me down! I'm fine!" Startled the three men dropped him and stood back. "I'm just a little sore, that's all. I don't need a medic."

LeBeau, who had been cleaning off a table, turned. His relief was obvious. "But, Colonel Crittendon said…"

"I don't care what he said, LeBeau. The mission was successful, but we ran into a convoy on the way back and had to make a run for it. Oh, and I guess I don't have to explain that I picked up a stray group captain. Seems he got captured, again. And escaped again. How many is this, Crittendon?"

"I dare say, I've lost count!"

Hogan began walking over to the radio, all the men in the tunnel staring at his gait.

"Colonel, did you perhaps make a run for it by riding some horses?" Carter turned and spoke to his bunkmates. "I've been around horses long enough to see the after effects on an inexperienced rider. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to say you didn't know how to ride, but it sure looks as though you had a bit of a rough time there. But then again, that's impossible. Where would you find horses for hire? Unless you stole them. Like cattle rustlers, except for horses. They're not up top are they?"

"Carter, my boy." Crittendon gave the eager sergeant a friendly pat on the back. "You are correct. Except, I'm sorry to disappoint you. We only borrowed them. I gave them a slap, and off they went. Hopefully back to the paddock from whence they came."

"Whence they came?" Kinch stifled a giggle; then went over to the radio to call London. He saw Wilson heading in his direction and waved him over. "He's okay, Wilson. False alarm."

"You sure?" Wilson asked as he gazed at the colonel's posture. He was used to Hogan's slouching, but seeing him standing a bit bow-legged was a new experience. The medic grinned in relief. "How about some aspirin, Colonel. You look a bit sore."

Hogan absent-mindedly rubbed his lower back and garnered more stares as he headed for the radio. He gratefully accepted the aspirin Wilson placed in his hand, and dry-swallowed. "Thanks, Wilson. Kinch, let them know the package was delivered and that we need to arrange a sub pick-up. Carter, the only horse I've ever been on before today was on a merry-go-round. I've never ridden before in my life. We didn't make a run for it. I guess you could say we made a gallop for it." Hogan grinned at his own wit. Now that he was back safe and sound, he could laugh about his experience…until he tried to sit down.

The End

A/N If Crittendon is in the RAF, he should be a Group Captain. Sgt. Moffitt's "The Crittendon Chronicles," explores this time and time again, with expert humor. However, I think some of the boys would continue to call him colonel. Maybe they go back and forth!

I was always "amused" by the use of horses in modern American tv shows and movies. Everyone automatically hops on and gallops off, which is totally unrealistic. In "Back to the Future, part 3, Marty somehow knows how to mount and ride with no problem. This is a suburban Californian from a lower middle class family. LOL. I doubt that he had ever been on anything more than a horse walking at a petting zoo.

Yes, I rode. Unfortunately, at age 14, I was thrown off when my horse was spooked by a bee. I ended up with a compression fracture of a vertabrae (T-12), which sort of ended my riding career. Unlike Hogan, I never learned to jump and gallop, although I did get back on a horse a year later. I'm sure this old break contributed to my current back problems. Sigh.


	9. Andrew Carter's Excellent Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carter is late returning to camp, and everyone is waiting for an explanation. My entry for the 2013 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge. 2014 PBA award winner! Gold: Best story based on a challenge. Silver: best portrayal of a canon character. (Carter) Bronze: Best short comedy.

Andrew Carter's Excellent Adventure

The adventure began with a very average mission, routine, everyday stuff. Someone had to go into town, rendezvous with Red Riding Hood; get the coordinates of a new ball-bearing factory, and just high-tail it back to camp. The weather was good, there was no unusual activity going on in the area, and reliable sources informed us that Hochstetter was home with a bad stomach flu (gee, I wonder how that happened)? So the local Gestapo thugs were catching up on paperwork. Yup, an everyday, routine, average mission.

Colonel Hogan wanted to go. (After all, it was Red Riding Hood.) However, his plans were thwarted when he was informed that Kommandant Klink desired Colonel Hogan's presence, forthwith. This meant that Klink needed one-on-one officer time. And the colonel really couldn't refuse, could he? Seems something was bugging our old F.I.N.K. (fair, impartial, Nazi, kommandant). Klink didn't seem to have the rapport with his administrative staff that he had with his Senior POW officer, and he often called for a meeting with our colonel, ostensibly to discuss electricity, work details or something of that nature. The meeting would continue long into the night, and Colonel Hogan would come back slightly none-the-worse for the wear, a bit of Schnapps or Cognac on his breath. He would mumble something about a long chess game, complaints about the general staff, and the mysteries of the female gender, and then he would turn in. The colonel's escort (usually Schultz or Langenscheidt) would roll his eyes, and give us a quick and knowing look before ordering us to go back to bed.

Carter (the lucky devil) went in the colonel's place. To be fair, it was his turn, and Newkirk and LeBeau had nothing to complain about. The two grumbled good-naturedly for a bit, but then got down to business, fawning over our young tech sergeant, with the care of two mothers about to send their youngest off to kindergarten for the very first time.

"Guys," he griped. "I'm really, really happy that you care so much about my safety, but I've lost count of how many times…ouch, Newkirk! You pricked me."

"Sorry, mate." Newkirk was fitting Carter for a civilian suit. Carter's go-to suit for these type of missions was no longer in service. It was a perfect fit for the rescued airman we sent back to England last week, and our wardrobe department hadn't had time to replace it yet.

LeBeau was dusting Carter's hair in an attempt to make him appear a bit older. Papers, fake spectacles, and a cane were already on stand-by.

"As I was saying, I've done this at least a hundred times." Carter wasn't as naïve as he seemed. He knew darn well why LeBeau and Newkirk were making such a fuss; they hoped he would chicken out so one of them could go in his place. But he wasn't buying it. Besides, it was his turn, and the colonel expected his men to follow orders. As always, plans were in place should he be delayed-or worse-not return. Not that anyone expected trouble, since this mission promised to be easy as falling off a log.

"Don't worry, fellas. This will be a piece of pie," were Carter's last words before ascending the ladder. No one bothered to correct his phrasing, as that was a lost cause. Once he was gone, men scattered in all directions. LeBeau went up top, while Newkirk returned the make-up and sewing supplies to the storage room. Kinch headed to his area to monitor the radio, and after discussing some sensitive information with the radio man, Olsen went up top as well.

Our evening routine went off without a hitch. Men went to and from the latrine, changed into their sleeping attire, and hopped on their bunks to write letters, or to read. Kinch stayed below—something he always did while someone was out-of-camp. (He'd be back in time for the bed check, and then he would disappear again.) And so we waited…and waited…and waited.

It was Olsen who looked at his watch. "Carter's a bit overdue," he stated as he jumped down from his bunk. "I'll get the dummy."

No one panicked…yet.

The dummy took Carter's place, and everyone went back to what they were doing. Schultz performed a quick bed check. (Everyone, including the dummy, was counted. Colonel Hogan was still with the Kommandant.) Kinch, with nary a look of concern, went back downstairs. "Carter probably got stuck watching the movie," he mentioned before we shut the bunk entrance.

"That's rough," Newkirk stated. "Poor bugger. Imagine having to sit through that garbage." The cinema was frequently used as a rendezvous point, but our contacts normally left right after the newsreels, and our man followed a few minutes later.

After another hour, we were really beginning to worry. Fortunately, Colonel Hogan arrived at that moment. It was obvious he had a headache, which worsened when he noticed Kinch's absence. "Where's Carter?"

"Not back yet, sir," Newkirk replied in a worried voice.

Hogan looked at his watch and performed some rapid calculations in his head. "The movie finished over an hour ago," he said, headache and tedious evening now forgotten. How he knew the movie schedule, was a mystery. But then again, he seemed to know everything. "Walking back takes at the most, one hour, so he should be back by now." Without another word, he opened the bunk entrance. Newkirk and LeBeau, still in their pajamas, followed the colonel down.

"He'll have Kinch make contact with Red," Olsen explained. "There was probably a Gestapo sweep after the movie. Don't worry," he reassured us. "It happens all the time. Carter's been through this before."

That was true. They had all been swept up more than once, and had lived to see another day. We were all up by then. So, Goldman made a large pot of coffee, while Saunders stood at the door, checking for anything suspicious. We talked quietly amongst ourselves, trying not to show each other our nerves. We were shut off from the colonel and most of his main team; the bunk entrance was kept closed. As Olsen made like the colonel and started to pace (one of the reasons he took the colonel's place, on occasion…he was so good at it), the bunk entrance rattled open. LeBeau sprung up and announced, to our relief, that Carter had just arrived.

We all gathered round, and watched as first, Kinch, then Newkirk, came up. They were followed by Carter, who looked like he had been run over by a truck, then Colonel Hogan. Someone closed the entrance as Carter walked over to the table and collapsed into a chair.

"You hurt?" Hogan asked, concern showing on his face.

"No, sir."

"Good. Then tell me what the hell happened!"

"Those aren't the clothes he went off with," Newkirk mumbled. He would be the one to notice.

"I have the information," Carter said sheepishly. "In the cane."

Kinch grabbed the cane and unscrewed the secret compartment on the bottom. He removed a small piece of paper, and then put the cane back together.

"Good." Hogan went over and poured himself a large mug of coffee. He probably assumed this would take a while. "I hope you have a decent explanation."

"We were worried sick," Newkirk added for good measure.

"All right." Carter began drawing circles on the table with his right hand. "It all started out fine. Red, was right where she was supposed to be. In the eighth row, third seat in." He looked up at the colonel. "Can I call her Nancy? It sounds better than Red."

"Sure," the colonel replied. "Go on."

"So I sat down next to her. We exchanged idle conversation before everything started. Just like we rehearsed. Anyway, she passed me the coordinates. I excused myself to go to the men's room, and I hid the paper. So, about twenty minutes later, the newsreel started. I was really hoping we could leave on time, because the movie was that thing about the Olympics, and I really, really didn't want to have to sit through that again."

"Understandable." Hogan took a sip of coffee. "Continue."

There was really no point in hurrying Carter along, or telling him to get to the end. We all knew that, so although everybody's stomachs were in knots by this point, and we were all getting impatient, no one prodded him to move along any quicker. That was the colonel's job, and so far, he still had some patience left.

"Bad luck. A group of SS guys came into the theater. No one was going to get up now. No way. So Nancy and I decided to wait. And then just as the movie started, the projector broke."

"So you left?" Hogan asked.

"No, sir. One of the SS guys told everyone to stay. That they would definitely get to the glorious tribute to the Fatherland even if they had to shoot the projectionist; and besides, there were no refunds."

"Let me guess," Newkirk interrupted. "Someone shot the projectionist."

"How'd you guess?" Carter asked Newkirk in all innocence.

"Call it a hunch."

"And then what happened?" Hogan asked; this time there was a hint of impatience in his tone.

"One of them shot the projectionist. And all heck broke loose."

Normally, Carter would be over excited and in his element. He loved telling stories. But this time, he was clearly exhausted, worn-out, and it seemed, a bit off.

"The theater manager was really angry. It seems the projectionist was a decorated war veteran…from the last war…and trained projectionists are real hard to come by. And to make matters worse, Major Hochstetter is a good friend of the manager. That's what he said."

"Kinch, make a note of that. We need to find another theater to meet in." Hogan said as an aside.

Carter didn't notice, and he kept talking; still in a monotone, but now it appeared that he was on a roll. "So he told the SS…you know, the manager was pretty brave, taking on a squad of SS guys. He told them he was going to call Major Hochstetter right away, and that they had better stay put. He started writing down their names. Sooo. That's when Nancy and I thought we had better scram. We crawled through the aisles, bit-by-bit. It took us forever, but we didn't want to be seen. And finally we made it out to the street. Right in time, too. We went one way, and the Gestapo were coming from the other direction."

"And so you parted ways, and set out for home," LeBeau asked. He then paused. "Non. C'est impossible. You went somewhere else, didn't you? You should have been back a lot sooner."

"Well, I couldn't let Nancy walk home all alone in the dark. It was getting close to curfew, and there are all sorts of bad people out there," Carter said. "Sheesh."

Nancy, known to us all as Red Riding Hood, was an extremely capable member of the Underground, who had been through more dangerous situations then we could even imagine. This fact was lost to our chivalrous technical sergeant, who continued with his saga.

"So we started walking back to Nancy's apartment when I tripped over something. It was someone's wallet…with their papers right inside. So I picked it up."

"Oh, don't tell me you tried to find the owner, Carter." The colonel's headache was clearly returning, as he popped a few aspirin into his mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of coffee.

"Well…" Carter's face fell. He now knew he was in danger of falling into uncharted territory. A good-deed-doer, after all, needed to weigh the pros and cons of doing the good deed. And clearly, trying to return a lost wallet weighed against returning to camp in good time…well, the scales were definitely tipped in favor of returning to camp. Except of course, we all knew where this was going. "You see. I picked it up. And it belonged to someone's grandmother. If someone found my grandmother's papers and wallet, with pictures and money and everything, I'd want them to return it. Or at least try. Wouldn't you?"

A chorus of guilty mumbles ran through the hut, until Newkirk's voice broke through. "No. Carter, are you daft? You shouldn't waste time on that sort of mess. Why didn't you come home straight away?"

"Well, it seemed the right thing to do," Carter replied, as he pouted. "And who knows what would have happened to this person if she lost her papers. German bureaucrats aren't like ours, you know. Ours won't throw you in jail if you ask for a new driver's license."

"Speak for yourself," someone murmured.

"Can it!" The colonel ordered. He patted Carter on the shoulder. "It's too late to change things now. But Carter, you shouldn't have done that. You risked exposing yourself to a civilian."

"Oh, I thought of that, sir. You see, we got the lady's address, and we were just going to leave it outside her door, but we sort of, got caught."

Colonel Hogan looked as if he was about to tear out some of his considerable head-of-hair.

Carter continued, quickly, before he got in more trouble. "Just as we were about to leave it, the lady showed up. "'You've got my wallet and papers!' That's what she said! She was so excited, she began to cry. And then she offered us a reward. So of course, we refused. And then, before you know it, we ended up having tea and cake with her in her house." Carter noticed our looks. Even Saunders, who was still watching the door for signs of guards coming to check on the activity (the small amount of light still on in the hut), glared. "We couldn't really refuse. It wouldn't have been polite," Carter added.

"I'd assume that's when you finished up and came back, except, and I already mentioned this, for the fact that you're not wearing the clothes I put on you!" Newkirk was clearly upset at the loss of his handiwork.

"Oh, Carter. What next?" The colonel grabbed a chair and straddled it, waiting for the punch line which, at this point, seemed far, far, off in the future.

"I ran into a skunk."

"Of course," Hogan said. "That explains the change of clothes."

"Yes, sir!" Carter exclaimed. "But it wasn't at the lady's house. After the tea and cake, we left. I walked Nancy back to her apartment, and I ran into it, well, actually, it sort of ran into me. Well, whatever. It doesn't matter. I got sprayed."

"Nancy, I mean, Red gave you a change of clothes?" Hogan sniffed. "And that's not all, is it?"

Olsen sniffed Carter's hair. "Do I detect a hint of lavender?"

"You lucky dog." Newkirk slapped Carter on the back, and in return, Carter gave him a sheepish grin.

"She threw my clothes in the incinerator while I took a bubble bath. She had some from before the war that she was saving for a special occasion."

"LeBeau, don't you have a recipe for getting rid of skunk odor?"

"Bien sur, mon colonel. I have a recipe for everything. But c'est l'amour. And a bath. Who can blame him?"

"I do. Carter, you should have known better. And I can't believe Red went along with this," Hogan said, now more annoyed than ever.

"I didn't want to stink up the entire hut, sir."

"I'd give him a break, colonel. After all, he did get back." Kinch was always the rational one of the main group, and he could usually calm Colonel Hogan down, not that the colonel lost his temper very often.

But this time, the colonel didn't take the bait. "Okay, Carter. You had a bath, and got clean clothes. But what happened after that? You're a wreck; your clothes are a wreck." Hogan grabbed a lantern and stared at Carter closely for a moment. "Is that blood?" he asked in a slightly panicked and higher tone of voice. Sure enough, blood was on Carter's hands and underneath his fingernails. Streaks of blood also marred his pants and shirt. "Red?"

"She's fine, sir." Carter looked down. "I didn't realize I got blood on my clothes. Sorry to scare ya all like that."

"Where is the blood from? You ran into trouble on the way back and had to shoot someone?" Hogan took another swig of coffee, probably to steady his nerves for the next answer.

"Oh, that's from when I delivered the baby," Carter answered matter-of-factly.

The colonel's swig of coffee shot out from his mouth, barely missing Garth, who was in the line of fire. Now Carter had everyone's undivided attention.

"What did you, say?" Colonel Hogan looked like he was praying that he had suddenly become hard-of-hearing, and that he had completely misheard Carter's words.

No such luck.

"I delivered the baby," Carter repeated.

Newkirk, in shock at this unexpected turn of events, needed to sit down. Unfortunately, he forgot there was no chair under him, and he hit the floor with a thud. "Oh, me bum," he complained. He scrambled to his feet, rubbed his rear, and then looked at Carter in a whole new light.

"You delivered a baby?" Kinch asked.

Hogan shook his head. He then grabbed the bridge of his nose, and squeezed it in an attempt to get rid of the tension. "Carter, what happened?"

"I was about to leave, when Nancy's….I mean Red's neighbor's kids knocked on her door. They were really scared, sir. We had to help them."

"Their mother was the one with the baby?"

"Yes. Her husband is away in the army. She called the doctor, and she was waiting for her sister to get here from the other side of town, but the kids said she told them to get help. So, that's what they did. So, we went down to the apartment, and well…that baby wasn't going to wait for anyone. No, sirree."

"You know how to deliver a baby?" Olsen asked Carter.

"Well, I've never done it before, but we just winged it. I mean, I've seen animals being born, you know. How hard could it be?"

"What kind of question is that? Oh, mon dieu."

Carter ignored LeBeau. "I mean, the poor lady kept screaming. Red was the only one the kids would go to. They didn't know me, and they were scared. So that's why I delivered it. And the mom didn't care. All she said was 'I don't care if you're a Martian. Just get it out!' Except, she yelled it in German, of course."

"Of course," Hogan said.

"This has to be one for the books," Garth commented to Saunders, who had completely forgotten to watch the door.

Hogan looked up. "Get back to the door!" Goldman left his spot by the stove and ran over. "So, this woman now remembers you as the man who delivered her…what did she have, by the way?"

"A boy!" Carter grinned. "It was the most remarkable thing I've ever done. And guess what? She named him after me!"

"You gave her your name?" Hogan demanded in a tone that meant a court-martial could be in the future.

"No," Carter replied in a tone that seemed to indicate he would never, ever, be that stupid. "I gave her a fake name. I was Red's Uncle August from Stuttgart. Once everything got sorted out, I left. Red stayed with Ester. That's the mom's name. I guess the sister was on the way, and so was the doctor." Carter flicked some stray hair off of his forehead. "Boy, am I bushed. Can I get into bed now, sir?"

"Yeah, go ahead, but get that blood off of your hands first." Hogan looked at his watch. "That goes for everyone else. We only have a few hours before roll call. We all need the shut-eye." He watched as Carter went over to the sink to clean up. Shaking his head, Hogan stood up and went into his office, shutting the door behind him.

Carter finished cleaning up. He had one of those goofy grins on his face as he walked over to his bunk. He shut off the lantern he was carrying, and then climbed in, letting out a breath as he settled in. "Night fellas."

"Go to sleep, Carter." That was Newkirk leaning over the bunk. He was quiet, but his accent was unmistakable. "Oh, and tomorrow, when Colonel Hogan is otherwise occupied, you can explain what really happened."

Silence. And then…"What makes you think I made the whole thing up, Newkirk?"

"You can't con a con man, Carter."

"Well, you can believe me or not believe me, Newkirk. Your choice." Carter let out a little chuckle, leaving the rest of us wondering if Carter told the truth and completed a most unusual mission, or if something else had happened, and he left out the more embarrassing details of why he was really late. But whatever the truth was, Colonel Hogan had accepted Carter's version of events, and that was that. And as Newkirk told us later that week, he had managed to sneak in a radio call to Red, who confirmed everything Carter had said. Was Newkirk satisfied? Doubt it. But, word got around, as those things always do, and Carter found himself the recipient of anonymous gifts. We were all a resourceful lot. Even those of us who couldn't get out of camp, had our means of acquiring all sorts of goods. Cigars (pilfered from Klink, of course), homemade rattles, teddy bears, and unbelievably, cloth diapers. (Goodness knows where those were found, but we discovered they made great dust rags.)

Carter took this all with his usual good humor, but eventually, Carter's adventure...the one that began with a very average mission, routine, everyday stuff, was forgotten. You see, other missions and other adventures, always seem to crop up around here. And the biggest, most important mission-staying alive- is the biggest adventure of all.

The End

Was Carter telling the truth? It's for you to decide.


	10. The Missing Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are the intelligence officer monitoring Berlin Betty's broadcast this evening. A mention of Mama Bear and Papa Bear gets your attention. Can you decode the message? A missing scene from "Is There a Traitor in the House?" 2014 PBA winner: Bronze: Best Short Drama

A missing scene from

"Is There a Traitor in the House?"

(Newkirk's missing speech from the radio broadcast)

***dialog taken directly from the episode is in italics.***

"This is Berlin Betty. Tonight, I am pleased to have as my guest, one of your own countrymen, who has realized the futility of continuing to resist the Fatherland. I hope you take this message to heart, so that we can all once again live in peace. And now, here it is Corporal Peter Newkirk of the Royal Air Force."

"Tonight, I would like to ask each of my comrades to lay down his gun and surrender. I think I can best illustrate my reasons for asking this by reminding you of a story I learned when I was a wee bit of a lad in London. It's the story of Mama Bear and Papa Bear."

"There's the signal," Hogan, along with LeBeau, Carter and Kinch, were eavesdropping on Newkirk's broadcast. The colonel was now a bit more hopeful that the British corporal would follow through with the plan.

"But first, I just want to say allo to me mates down at the Pig and Whistle off of Edgware Road, round the corner from the Marble Arch. Keep cheerin' on Manchester United for me lads."

"Your story, Corporal."

"Sorry." Newkirk cleared his throat. "One day, a little girl, whose name was Goldilocks, was playing with her ball by the edge of a forest. She was throwing the ball up in the air, and catching it. Let's say she caught it around 25 times. On the next throw, she was startled by a crafty fox, and the sound of a gun fired by a far-off hunter. Well, her aunty and uncle always taught her that if she heard guns, she should go home straight away. Poor Goldilocks was confused, so she ran the wrong way and lost her bearings.

"She walked and walked and walked. 'Oh, woe. Oh, woe is me. I must 'ave walked at least 10 miles the wrong way.' That reminds me of me sister, Mavis. One time she got lost off around Marylebone on her way home. She said she must have walked for at least 6 hours. Turns out, it was barely 2 and she was lost for less than an hour. Children. Don't think they have track of time.

"Where was I? Goldilocks was lost and she feared she was going in the wrong direction. Looking up, she saw the sun and she began to cry. 'I went north when I should have gone south!'

"Now hungry, tired and scared, Goldlocks came across a huge clearing, on which a cottage was nestled. Seeing that the door was open and that no one was around or paying attention, the young girl walked in. 'Allo? Allo?' No one answered. Although Goldilocks knew she should have turned around before invading someone's home, her instinct told her otherwise, and she was hungry. Her stomach growling, she followed the delightful smell and found herself in the kitchen, where a lovely mutton stew was being kept warm on the stove."

"Excuse me, Corporal? I thought it was porridge."

"Well, ma'am. In my house it was mutton stew. We were poor you see, and we got sick of eating porridge."

"Oh, I see. Please…continue."

"There were three place settings on the table; each held a glass of water, a bowl of stew and a spoon. Starving, Goldilocks cleared a space for herself, and began stealing… I meant tasting the stew. 'Oh!' she exclaimed. 'This one is too hot!' She threw down her spoon, and gulped down the glass of water. Not being deterred…mind you, this girl was persistent, she tried the next bowl. 'Yeech. This stew is too cold!' She threw away the spoon, which broke as it hit the ground. 'One more bowl! Ooh!' she cried. 'This stew is just right!' She made a contented face, then went over to the stove and ate all the rest.

"At that moment, a loud noise made her turn around. Standing in front of her were three bears. One an extremely large bear, the papa bear, was wrapped in fur. Why the bear had extra fur, considering it had its own, never crossed her mind. The second bear was slightly smaller than the first and it was obviously the mama bear. And the third was obviously their child.

"'What is this girl doing here?' The papa bear roared.

"'How dare you eat my mutton stew?' said the mama bear.

"'Mummy, I'm frightened,' said the baby bear.

"'I am cold, lost and hungry, and your cottage and the mutton stew looked so inviting.' Tears came to Goldilocks eyes, and they began to roll down her face.

"At this point the family of bears realized that there was nothing they could do about the break in, and their lost supper. They took pity on the poor lass and decided for the sake of everyone to work together, for it made no sense to resort to violence. And Goldilocks understood this as well and helped the three bears to clean up the mess and cook more supper, which they all shared. And then the three bears walked Goldilocks the 10 miles back home.

"And I say that the belief that we can win this war is as much of a fairy tale as the three bears."

"Thank you, Corporal Newkirk; and I hope your countrymen are as wise and as patriotic as you are. And now good night from Berlin Betty."

A sullen and slightly embarrassed Newkirk trudged back to the hut, and entered the common room.

Colonel Hogan put his arm around the corporal. "Good job."

"Thank you, sir. Blimey I fell right into her trap."

"I know we heard." LeBeau handed Newkirk a mug of tea. "Tough break."

"I'll get over it. I'm just glad I managed to get the speech out. Do you think they'll get the codes?" Newkirk handed Hogan the speech.

"They're the best in the business." Hogan said as he glanced at the paper. "Marylebone is nowhere near the East End," he stated.

"Sorry, Sir. I thought to myself walking over there; Special Ops, the RAF. They'll know everything.. But what about the rest of England? Mavis, me mates. They'll think I'm a traitor. I just put in a bit of false information if you get my drift."

"That's why your accent was so thick for part of the broadcast. So they'll know you're a Cockney," Kinch said. "You wouldn't be in a West End pub. Any Englishman listening would wonder about that."

"And I definitely wouldn't be cheering on Manchester United." Newkirk laughed. "Hopefully they'll think twice about me being a traitor."

And so, once the radio was fixed, London informed Newkirk that his ruse had worked. His speech was picked up by all the press, but any mention of it was censored, and instead of labeling the corporal a traitor to England, the few Englishmen that heard it realized straight away that the Cockney they heard over the airwaves was sending them a clear signal that he was not betraying his country. And to Newkirk's relief, Mavis and the rest of his family weren't even listening.

In case you are unfamiliar with the episode, the heroes needed to convey the location of a secret German plant. Ball-bearings, 10 miles south of Hamelburg. 25 antiaircraft gun emplacements.

The German word for mutton is...hamel!


	11. Tale of Two Uniforms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of two unlikely members of Papa Bear's team, their contribution to the operation, and their poignant reunions with the man, who without them, would be, well...underdressed.

The producers and writers never anticipated the internet, and our obsession with inconsistencies and continuity. And so, in another attempt to explain the inexplicable, or just to make sense of a costume decision, I offer you all...

A Tale of Two Uniforms

Although the storage unit in which it now hung was not the most hospitable place for such a proud and well used weapon, it was more than happy to share the space with the less formal but equally well used shirts and slacks that its owner wore-for the most part-all the time.

The dress uniform was a newcomer to this operation. Previously, it had sat forlornly in The Colonel's quarters at the base, waiting for close to two months to find out his final fate. Would the next of kin receive dreadful news? It would then be packed up, and sent along to the appropriate department, awaiting instructions for its final disposition. Or perhaps, there would be no word, a cruel fate, for there would be no closure. In this case, it would be packed up with all the other belongings and sent on a long overseas journey to its final resting place, its owner's parents.

But fate was kind! Word came that its owner was safe, but in the hands of the enemy. But the fellow airmen at the base refused to pack up the belongings and send them along. Not yet. The Colonel was sly, clever and bilingual, they said. If anyone would return to reclaim his property, it would be him. And so, it waited patiently for the day when it could resume its rightful place on its owner's trim, athletic body. It wasn't lonely, for it shared space with its twin. Occasionally, an aide would come in, polish the many medals, and steam its fabric.

And then the day came! It was checked over carefully, and then removed from the wardrobe. The quartermaster sergeant at the base argued fruitlessly that his charge belonged elsewhere, and should be sent to the Army Effects Bureau in the United States before being forwarded on to the next stop. But his pleas fell on deaf ears, for the two mysterious men in civilian clothes that took it from the sergeant's hand, seemed to even hold sway over the new base commander.

The uniform was taken on a ride into London, and once it reached its destination, it was packed into a box. The next step was unknown, for the box was dark, although the next handlers seemed to speak of Switzerland.

It would take an airplane ride, and an overland journey in a bumpy truck before it would next see daylight.

Both the Germans and the prisoners referred to the strange events as the bombsight debacle. The episode rankled both Hogan and Klink equally. Both men were humiliated. Klink was on pins and needles for several weeks afterwards, as he waited for the one-way ticket to the Eastern Front that fortunately never materialized. Although Klink thought that he was a good judge of human nature, he had to admit that Hogan had certainly pulled one over on him. He vowed never to fall for one of Hogan's schemes ever again, and any thoughts of plants and bugs were pushed aside for the time being, or at least for a few months. (1)

Hogan basked in the afterglow of his successful mission, but only for a short time. Satisfaction with his con melted away as he considered the ramifications of what had transpired. First, he realized that Klink was not just a mere pawn. The Kommandant had set Hogan's plan in motion with a blatant attempt to spy on the Senior POW Officer. Hogan felt violated. But what bothered Hogan more than anything was Burkhalter's suggestion and insistence that Hogan wear the German uniform. Of course, Hogan had worn German uniforms plenty of times. But that was on his terms and in disguise. Now his fraternization was out there for all to see. And having to don the German uniform poured salt into the wound. In the short time the operation had been in place, the other POW's learned to ignore such unexpected and odd behavior. But there was always the chance someone-an Allied soldier or a German officer-would misinterpret the event, and trouble would be sure to follow.

And then inspiration struck.

One of Newkirk's handmade tailoring jobs was quickly dismissed. Authentication would be absolutely essential, and that could not be guaranteed. And the correct decorations weren't available.

The request through other channels was turned down. London refused to risk a pilot and plane on a drop for something they considered nonessential.

But, mail was an option. And all that was needed was the assistance of one of the many agents stationed throughout Europe; this one worked for the Red Cross in their London office. And soon the ball was rolling.

It was two familiar hands that removed the uniform from the box and placed it on a hanger. The right hand briefly caressed the medals and ribbons already in place on the ribbon bar that was left in the bottom of the box. Its owner, The Colonel, placed the ribbon bar on a desk and then returned. The Colonel undressed and then began to place it on his body.

Excitement made way for trepidation and then uncertainty. Something was wrong. The fit was no longer perfect. Its owner tugged a bit here and there, and then pulled up the slacks. They sank. He walked over to the door and called out.

"Newkirk!"

An RAF man followed its owner into the room and shut the door. "Problem, sir?" He gazed at it, and shook his head in sympathy. "Well, I dare say we've all lost a bit of weight. Not to worry. Just a few nips and tucks and it'll be right as rain. I'll get my kit."

"Thanks, Newkirk."

The Englishman worked on it night and day, and finally it was again ready to wear. This time, it was complete, as the ribbon bar was mounted proudly on The Colonel's chest.

The Colonel's new staff (my, they looked so disheveled) nodded their approval. "Well," The Colonel said. "It's show time."

"I'd love to see the look on Klink's face," said the man with dark skin.

Whoever this Klink was…well, he was about to see what he was up against.

The Colonel left the building and strode confidently across the compound. Upon seeing his dress, both POW's and German guards automatically saluted. The Colonel took the steps into the building two at a time, startling the guard outside the door. He waltzed into the outer office, stunning the woman seated at the desk.

"Colonel Hogan!" She stood up and walked in front of the desk. "So that's what was in that big package."

"You check our mail?" The Colonel asked mischievously.

"Sergeant Schultz told me. I'm surprised our inspectors didn't take it for their own purposes."

"Just lucky, I guess," The Colonel replied. "Can you announce me?" He took a deep breath and then seemed to gather his strength. His body slouched slightly as the woman tapped softly on the closed door.

"Come in," came the voice from inside.

"Colonel Hogan to see you, Kommandant," announced the woman.

The man inside was seated behind a desk that was filled with stacks of paperwork. Armed with a very sharp pencil, he was engrossed in checking off tiny boxes. Without looking up, he said, "Hogan, I'm very busy. What do you want?"

"It's about the dinners with those generals who always show up here. The dinners you order LeBeau to prepare and me to attend."

"What about them?" The man, obviously the Kommandant, glanced upwards. His mouth hung open as the pencil dropped.

"I've been underdressed," The Colonel mentioned without missing a beat. He waltzed over to the desk and deftly removed a cigar from the humidor.

"Where did you get that uniform?" The Kommandant stepped around to the front of the desk and stood about a foot away. His gaze fell on to the medals and ribbons adorning The Colonel's chest. The Kommandant was obviously impressed.

"Came in the mail; with help from the Red Cross."

"In the mail? From America? Impossible."

"My mother asked; they listened."

"I don't believe it." The Kommandant walked around The Colonel admiring its fit and style. "It's a nice fit."

"It had to be taken in," The Colonel said a bit coldly.

"This has to be against regulations," the Kommandant said quickly. "You have your casual uniform and bomber jacket. Wear that." The Kommandant was obviously jealous.

"Against regulations?" The Colonel laughed. "What if you somehow captured an Allied general? Say he was inspecting troops, and the only thing he had on him was his dress uniform. What would he wear?"

"Hogan, that's not the same situation!"

"You expect me to fraternize, I'm wearing this. You want to show me off, I'm wearing this. Case closed." The Colonel pulled out a lighter and lit the cigar.

"This is about General Burkhalter and our uniform, isn't it?" the Kommandant sounded as if he had been taken down a notch. Which he had.

"That episode is in the past," The Colonel replied.

"In the past," the Kommandant repeated.

The Colonel nodded. "In that case, I'll consider being at your next dinner party, and LeBeau will cook… in exchange for some concessions to be named later."

"We'll see," the Kommandant muttered. "You're dismissed. Go back to your barracks." He didn't bother watching as The Colonel left the room.

The Colonel shut the door, straightened his posture and paused at the woman's desk.

"You look very handsome, Colonel Hogan," she said with a smile. She reached over and touched a medal, then frowned. "A Purple Heart."

"Don't worry about it. I have a present for you." The Colonel reached into a pocket and pulled out something made of silky material. He put them in the woman's outstretched hand.

"Danke, Colonel Hogan." The woman caressed the material for a moment; then placed the material in her purse. "But you know I'd help you anyway," she whispered. She then placed her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin in her clasped hands. "How did the Kommandant react?" she asked.

"A bit of a protest, then he caved. Just as I expected."

It could sense The Colonel's grin as its owner walked back to the compound and over to his quarters. Meanwhile, it wondered what sort of scheme its owner had cooked up this time. Whatever it was, it was sure to be dangerous. But it would be worth the danger. And it was finally back where it belonged.

The twin now had the storage unit to itself. The rest of its owner's personal items had been sent back to the states to be sorted and returned to its owner's family. Voices that it didn't recognize mumbled strange words that it didn't understand. Words like covert, and keeping up appearances. Some words were clear, and sent fear into its heart. Words like Stalag, Germany, and sabotage. But its job was to remain ready in case its owner returned. Its heart fell, however, when its twin was removed and sent away. Where was it going? Rumors had it being sent to its owner's new home. But it couldn't be sure. It lost track of time; but then the day came. Two strange men in civilian clothes removed it from its storage unit, and placed it in a bag. This time there was no protest from the base commander. "We'll have to order more decorations," it heard one man say. This was true, for the ribbon mount, medals and ribbons had left with its twin a while ago.

"Doubt he'll ever wear this again," the other quipped. "But you never know. He's got nine lives."

"Well, I can't imagine he'll show up, but the brass wants it ready just in case."

Where in tarnation was it going?

It was placed in a staff car and then taken on a journey. Not long afterwards-a few hours perhaps-it began to recognize sounds and smells. It had been there many times before, long ago, when its owner, The Colonel, was the base commander. London was its final destination.

"I don't like it, sir. Not at all." The voice, which belonged to the man with dark skin, was anxious. This was unusual.

"I'll be back in time for morning roll call, Kinch."

Aha. So that was his name.

"I'm with Kinch, sir," said the man called Carter. "If one of us disappears, well, that's one thing…But if you're missing, someone will notice."

"I have my orders. They wouldn't take no for an answer. Something happens, you know what to do," said its owner.

"This has to be about the invasion," said the Englishman; the one who took care of it when it first arrived. "Why else would London call you in?"

"That word is banned. That's an order. And no else in camp knows I'm gone. Just this barracks. Got it?"

A chorus of yes, sirs and then quiet. The owner's aides left the room, and then The Colonel opened its door. Would it be joining its owner on this mission? It hoped that was the case. The Colonel grabbed its sleeve for a brief moment. "I can't believe they asked for dress," he muttered, as he removed something from his pants pocket and put it on the shelf. "They have no clue what it takes." He shook his head and closed the door. It was not going.

It heard the sound of men speaking in the outer area. And then silence. If it could have, it would have trembled in fear, because it sensed this was a dangerous mission, unlike any other. Its owner would be gone, and there was a chance he would not come back. All it could do now was wait.

In case he was caught, Hogan dressed like an escaped prisoner, wearing tattered civilian clothes made of blankets, and carrying poorly made documents, However, everything went like clockwork. The plane arrived at the prearranged time, and soon Hogan was flying towards the English Channel. Several hours later, the plane landed, and he was whisked away to headquarters in London.

The clock stopped as soon as Hogan entered the building.

"You want me to do what?" he asked, voice rising. "Don't you understand I'm on a tight schedule?"

"Yes, sir. Actually, we expected you to be in your dress uniform. Never mind," said the British intelligence officer. "We have an extra one here. We can get you cleaned up and dressed. I'm sure you would enjoy a real hot shower."

Hogan counted to ten under his breath as he followed the officer through the halls. "I couldn't come in a dress uniform. I have to jump on the way back, remember? And if I got spotted, how would I explain my outfit? Hmmm?"

"I don't know, sir." The officer walked quickly down the hall, and Hogan had to pick up his pace in order to keep up. They turned into a locker area. "Help yourself to a shower and shave. I'll fetch your uniform."

"I'm not taking the time to…" Hogan stopped as the intelligence officer disappeared. "Well, I'll be…" Hogan ran his fingers through his hair. Of course he would love a real hot shower. What POW wouldn't? But some situations called for military regulations and decorum to be thrown out the window, and this was one of them. Without thinking, he checked his watch and sighed. The officer was still not back. Well, there was nothing else to do, except follow military protocol. He sighed again. "When in Rome," he said.

He took a shower in record time, and he certainly didn't bother to shave.

It had been waiting for more human contact. Finally, tonight it came! Steady hands removed it from storage, and pinned the decorations on to the chest. It was then walked it up two flights of stairs and down a hallway. A door was opened. It was warm and somewhat steamy in the room.

"Your uniform is on a hanger right outside, sir. I'll be outside when you're ready," yelled the man who brought it up to this room.

"You know my plane is waiting and the engines are probably still running!"

"Yes, sir."

That voice! Its owner! The Colonel had returned!

"Well, well, well." The Colonel caressed the fabric and unbuttoned the jacket. He placed it on his body, but to its horror, the fit was too loose. The pants were loose as well. "Nothing I can do about that now," The Colonel stated, as he glanced in the mirror. He tightened the belt.

The fit didn't matter, for it was back with its owner. He had returned, like the other humans had predicted.

"All right, lead on," The Colonel stated to the aide outside the door. The aide remained silent as they walked down the hall, and up another two flights. It was proud. Everyone passing them by saluted, and its owner returned the salutes. Despite the loose fit, The Colonel's posture was perfect and his stride was sound and strong.

The aide opened a door, and they walked into what appeared an outer office. A British officer was there waiting.

"Colonel Hogan. I'm Wembley." He held out his hand, which The Colonel shook. "I'm thrilled to meet you in person."

"Likewise," replied The Colonel. "I'm on a really tight schedule. This…" he touched it with his thumb. "Getting dressed for this meeting took up some valuable time."

"I'm sure fifteen minutes won't change anything, Hogan."

"Yes, but Wembley, I have to get back into the clothes I came in before I head back."

Wembley paused for a moment. "Oh. Well. This won't take long, I'm told. He's waiting for you."

The Colonel entered the office.

"Hogan. Bit of a dirty trick flying you to London for an hour of being a free man and then dropping you back at Stalag 13."

Only an hour and they wanted a change of clothes and a shave. Surprised they didn't want a haircut as well.

"It breaks up the day, sir."

"You're a good man." (2)

The mission briefing continued.

Its owner was someone important before he disappeared. And now he was privy to invasion plans. It was so proud. But, wait…The Colonel is not staying? He's returning to Germany? But why?

"Good luck old man."

The Colonel left the room. After the door closed, he remarked, "Got to get moving." As he headed for the door, he was stopped.

"I took the liberty of bringing your clothes up here. Get you out quicker, old man."

Its owner wasn't old. What was with these British and their Briticisms?

"Thanks, Wembley."

The British colonel and the other aides left the room, and then The Colonel swiftly changed. He carefully placed it on the hanger that had held the outfit he now wore. They both took one last look at each other before The Colonel opened the door and left its sight.

The next day, it was carefully cleaned, pressed and returned to its storage unit. Seeing its owner gave it hope, and so it remained, patiently waiting until the next time its owner returned to London.

It spent a fitful night waiting for its owner's return. The men living in the outer room were fitful as well, as it could hear them walking around and talking. Then, that morning, the guard they called Schultz entered the hut and asked for its owner.

It was frightened. The Colonel should have been back by now.

Muffled voices were coming from the outer area. And then the guard entered its owner's quarters. To its utter surprise, it heard Schultz ask for The Colonel, although anyone who wasn't blind could see he was not in the room.

"Colonel Hogan. Colonel Hogan. Hogan where are you? Colonel Hogan!"

Seriously?

There were sounds coming from the outer room, and Schultz quickly left The Colonel's quarters. Unfortunately, the guard shut the door behind him, and it strained to hear the conversation. But several minutes later, to its relief, The Colonel entered the room, his men following closely behind.

Its owner opened the storage unit, removed something from the shelf, and placed it in its pocket. The Colonel looked none the worse for wear. He stole a quick glance at the mirror attached to the door and then ran his fingers through his hair.

"We were a bit concerned, sir," said Kinch. "You just made it back."

"I know. Would you believe they made me change into a dress uniform? I wasted at least 20 minutes getting dressed and then undressed."

"Wow," said the man called Carter. "They're pretty strict for a spy outfit. Where did they get the uniform?"

"From my base. It wasn't sent back to the states," The Colonel said somewhat forlornly. "Well, when you meet with a general that high up in the chain of command, you have to follow protocol. Guess I'm too used to this rat hole. No harm done," said its owner. "And I'll have to admit, the shower felt great."

"You had a real hot shower?"Asked the Frenchman, LeBeau.

The Colonel shut the door, but it could still hear the conversation. "Hot water and real water pressure," its owner replied. "You know, as nice as it was to be on free soil for just over an hour, I really hope I don't have to do this again."

It felt the same way.

Notes.

In February 1942 the War Department established the Army Effects Bureau at the Kansas City Quartermaster Depot.

From the Quartermaster Museum in Virginia: I sent an email, requesting information on personal effects, and how they were handled. This is his reply.

"Most personal belongings would first be kept a for while in storage perhaps 6 weeks until verification if the soldier was a prisoner of war , or MIA, or KIA. Usually the personal items would be sent to the next of kin. But in cases of MIA or KIA the items would go to the Central Personal Effects Bureau in St. Louis for later distribution to the families. This office continued from 1944 till 1965. Hoping this will help. Sincerely, Luther Hanson QM Museum."

(1) "Top Hat, White Tie and Bombsight" (season 1)

(2) dialogue is from the episode, "D-Day at Stalag 13." I believe the general was not General Tillman Walters (or is it the other way around?) Just the same actor playing a different character, as he was credited under British general.

Hogan returned to London in the episode, "The Big Dish," and again wore his dress uniform. He was late getting back from that trip, as well. The men were already outside for roll call. His other trip to England in "Easy Come, Easy Go," was arranged by the Germans.


	12. Good Help is Really Not That Hard to Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another entry in the 2014 SSSW challenge. Klink has really had a bad day. And his night is getting worse. A missing scene from "Nights in Shining Armor."

The first line is from "Gone Fishing," By: ML Miller Breedlove

Good Help is Really Not That Hard to Find

a missing scene from: "Nights in Shining Armor."

Phew. Never thought I'd get this up in time.

Plop…plop.

In an attempt to drown out the noise of the dripping faucet, he grabs the pillow cradling his head and places it over his ears.

Plop…plop.

He flips from his back to his right side.

Plop…plop.

He flips from his right side, to his back and then over to his left side.

Plop…plop.

Back on his back.

Plop…plop.

He removes the pillow, and with dexterity he didn't know he had, in one motion, he flips from his back and over onto his stomach. With his left hand, he grabs the pillow, and places it over his head, and then with both hands, holds it tightly over his ears, and sighs.

Plop…plop.

The pillow is tossed onto the floor.

Plop…plop.

Now beyond frustrated, he sits up, swings his legs over the side, places his feet in his slippers and heads towards the bathroom. His bathrobe is left on the chair.

He had believed that the French lieutenant was an experienced French plumber. A plumber that could replace the recently transferred resident camp plumber, Corporal Schneider. Why had he done something so stupid as to transfer a plumber? After all, good contractors are always hard to find-no matter what country you live in.

Next time, he swears, he'll overlook any insults about his monocle and just send the offender to the mess hall to peel potatoes.

Plop…plop.

It had been a bad day. He had lost a prisoner. He had lost the bulletproof vests. He had lost the credit for the bulletproof vests. And he had lost a working sink faucet.

He crawls underneath the sink and stares at the pipes.

If you want something done correctly, you've got to do it yourself.

Plop…Plop.

Earlier, after Schultz had tested them safely, he tried them and got soaked. So he sent for Colonel Hogan, who could barely contain his laughter. Why was he in such a good mood? Sergeant Kinchloe was then called in to try and remedy the situation.

It seemed to work. Until bedtime.

Plop…Plop.

He has no tools. He sits up, banging his head against the sink. "Damn." He crawls out from beneath the sink, and stares into the mirror at the dark circles under his eyes. He then finds the wrench Kinchloe left on the floor by the bathtub and crawls back under the sink. Wedging himself into a not so comfortable position, he tightens whatever moving parts he can find, and then slowly extricates himself.

For good measure, he tightens the hot water handle. He tightens the cold water handle. And waits.

Silence. Could it be that simple? He waits another few minutes. He hears nothing. He heads back to bed.

Pillow beneath his head and now comfortably settled in, he listens. The anticipation and fear of hearing the drip is keeping him awake.

There is no noise. He starts to doze.

Plop…Plop.

He shoots straight up in bed. He muffles his scream of frustration in the nick of time. A scream would bring in a guard. And how foolish would screaming over a leaky faucet look to a 20-year-old enlisted man?

This time, he remembers his bathrobe, but forgets his slippers. He could go to the VIP quarters, but that means getting dressed and walking outside. Besides, it is raining. He heads over to the phone and calls the guardhouse.

"I don't care what time it is, go to Barracks two. I want Colonel Hogan and the prisoner, Kinchloe, brought over here immediately." He slams down the phone and waits.

"You'd better have a good explanation for getting us up and bringing us over here," Hogan says. He appears angry, while Kinchloe stands next his C.O., a bemused and curious look on his face.

"Listen," he says.

"Listen to what?" Hogan asks, as he removes his jacket and shakes off the water. "Excuse the lack of decorum," he says sarcastically. "I had no time to get properly dressed."

"You look fine to me," he replies. "Listen."

"Pardon me, Kommandant," Kinchloe says. "But what are we listening for?"

"The sink. It's still leaking. Wait for it. The plop, plop."

"Kommandant, I'm sure I fixed it…"

He held up his hand, silencing the sergeant. "Shhh. It's very loud. Especially when it's quiet."

Hogan and Kinchloe looked at each other.

"I don't hear anything, Colonel." Hogan walks towards the bathroom, and Kinchloe follows.

He is right on their heels.

Silence.

"I swear it goes plop, plop."

"That's tough," Hogan says. "Hearing that when you're trying to sleep." He actually sounds sympathetic.

Kinchloe picks up the wrench. "I'll check it again, Kommandant." He disappears under the sink.

"It was that rat, Dubois," he says. "He sabotaged my sink."

"I doubt that," Hogan replies.

There are no sounds coming from underneath. Kinchloe pops back up. "They're as tight as they can be, sir."

"You know, this reminds of when you're sick, and then you go to the doctor, and whatever pain you had is gone," Hogan says.

"Good analogy, Colonel."

"Thanks, Kinch."

"Oh, what's the use?" He says. "I'll go to the VIP tent. I'm sorry I dragged you out here."

"Well, it's quiet now," Hogan says. "Maybe it worked its way out."

The two Americans put on their outerwear and open the door.

Plop…Plop.

"There you see!" He feels vindicated.

Kinchloe removes his jacket and heads back towards the bathroom.

"Well at least you know you aren't hearing things." Hogan removes his jacket and follows Kinchloe.

He is right on their heels.

This time, Kinchloe bangs on the pipes. He's very strong and he manages to tighten the valves a tad more. And then they wait.

"Have you seen where the drip is coming from, sir?" He asks.

"Come to think of it, I have not," he answers. "I did hear the drip when I was underneath the sink." He rubs the top of his head.

Hogan notices. "You banged your head? You're getting quite a bump there."

"It has not been a good day," he moans.

"For you, no." Hogan agrees.

"It was good for you?" he asks.

"I didn't say that," Hogan replies.

Kinchloe grins.

They wait.

Plop…Plop.

"Did you hear that?" Hogan asks. "I didn't see it drip from the faucet."

"Where did it come from?" Kinchloe dives back under the sink, and runs his fingers along the pipes. "Not from here. They're bone dry." He gracefully extricates himself and then stands up. "Must have been the hot or cold water handle." He bends over the sink, stares for a moment and runs his hand along the faucet, then the handles and finally, the basin.

"It's not the sink."

"What do you mean it's not the sink?" He asks.

Hogan runs his finger over the sink. "He means it's dry. There's no moisture in here at all."

Hogan turns, and wrapping his arms around his chest, he stares at him.

"Well, I have no idea…"

Plop…Plop.

The bathtub.

Kinchloe reaches over and opens the curtain. Sure enough, there is a little bead of moisture hanging precariously off the faucet. Very slowly, it gains momentum, and then drips.

Plop…Plop.

Kinchloe reaches over and tightens both handles.

"Did you take a bath tonight, Kommandant?"

"Yes," he replies meekly. "Can I offer you both a cup of warm milk?"


	13. Keeping Up Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all in a day's work for a dog and her human. For the 2014 SSSW contest.

.

The first line is originally from the story, "Ursa Minor," by Nina Stephens

Keeping Up Appearances

Her legs twitched, as she lay sleeping on her side. The rabbit she was chasing was sure to get away, but it didn't matter. After all, the thrill was in the hunt.

The dog's strong legs carried her across the meadow and into the woods. The rabbit disappeared into some low-lying bushes; but she wasn't deterred. She stopped dead in her tracks and waited. Sooner or later, the small mammal would be forced to leave its haven.

She began to frantically dig around the bushes, frightening the rabbit. It leapt out of the bush, and continued its frantic run, heading pell-mell towards the other side of the woods.

"Ha, ha. I've got you now," she chuckled, then took off after it at a full run.

But the rabbit was clever, and sensed safety straight ahead. Sure enough, it dove underneath a large boulder, quickly working its way towards the middle, where it could not be reached.

"Ha, ha," the dog could hear it say. "Now I've got you."

"I don't think so," she panted. "I'll find…"

"Blümchen. You dreaming, girl? Chasing rabbits? Or a ground squirrel?"

She lazily opened one eye. "A rabbit. And I would have dug him out if you hadn't woken me." Despite her disappointment, her tail flicked in enjoyment.

"Sorry to wake you," Karl Langenscheidt said. He bent down and stroked the shepherd's head. "We're on duty."

"It's all right!" Blümchen got up and stretched. The corporal was her German handler, but unlike some of the other Germans, he was kind. She was sure he wouldn't hurt a fly, much less one of her packs' charges: the human prisoners who resided in the camp that was her workplace.

Langenscheidt waited patiently until Blümchen finished her stretching routine, then put on the leash. "Ready, my girl?"

"Ready, Karl. Report?"

"Just a normal day ahead of us. Well, I hope it's a normal day," Karl answered.

Karl always spoke with Blümchen, almost as he would with a human. He never forgot to bring her up to date on camp business, both official, and the unofficial, especially those odd occurrences that had been happening with increasing frequency.

Blümchen assumed he was suspicious of the cause, but he never said so out-loud. He would often speak about the war-the horrible news from the fronts, the bombings, the inhumanity, and his homesickness. Sometimes, she would see a tear roll down his cheek, for Karl was a sensitive human.

On breaks, away from the prying eyes of both prisoners and camp personnel, Blümchen would snuggle up next to her handler and offer emotional support. She noticed that Karl, although extremely intelligent and well-read for a human, was often nervous amongst his own kind. He seemed to relax around her, and she felt a sense of satisfaction that was unique to her situation. None of the other dogs in her pack felt the same way about their handlers.

Most of the guards were actually frightened of the dogs, for the dogs kept up the appearance of fierceness and ferocity, while hiding their true nature from the enemy.

Although Karl's translation skills were in demand, and he often assisted the Kommandant when Schultz was otherwise occupied, he actually preferred his duties as a dog handler and compound guard. Most of the time, he had little interaction with either the other guards or prisoners. This was his preference, as he was not the type to enjoy bossing people around, for that was what barracks guards were often forced to do.

However, in the few times he'd substituted for Schultz on barracks duty, he'd realized that the opposite was true for the prisoners in Barracks 2. They actually manipulated the guards, rather than the other way around.

Today, Karl and Blümchen walked away from the dog pen and headed to the front gate, where they would begin their patrol. It was 1500 hours, and the shift would take them through the afternoon into the night. Not all of the shift would be spent on patrol, of course. Schultz, despite being terrified of the dogs, allowed frequent breaks; he was not cruel to either them or their human handlers.

"Which way today?" Karl asked Blümchen. He normally left it to her to choose a direction.

"Left," she answered with a bark and a little tug.

Karl went right.

"Your other left," she told him with a whine and a sigh.

"Sorry," Karl said.

They headed left. It was a chilly day, but the sun was out, and the compound was filled with prisoners enjoying their exercise period. A game over by Barracks 12 was in full swing, although the reason why anyone would try and play with a ball too large to fit in a mouth defied comprehension. Even worse, the men tried to take it away from one another, and when victorious, threw it into a basket high over their head, usually losing possession of the ball in the process.

Blümchen knew she still had a lot to learn about the humans. On the other hand, she realized they could learn a lot from other species. She doubted the humans would reach that level of evolution in her lifetime.

They passed one of the guard towers, then began heading towards another area of the fence. This area was in partial view of several towers and guards patrolling the interior of the compound. So why was one prisoner slowly edging close to the barbed wire? This was an intriguing development.

So far, no one had noticed the American, but Blümchen knew that eventually he would be caught. Something needed to be done. She glanced around at her surroundings, then sniffed the ground. The human leader and his staff were not in her line of sight, although she thought they were nearby.

Her job was to protect the prisoners, and this prisoner was now in danger of getting into trouble. Getting too close to the fence was definitely verboten and, with alarm, she observed the man staring at the barbed wire. The Stalag guards weren't trigger-happy, but you never knew. Blümchen decided to take action.

"Karl." She tugged at the leash and began to bark. "Look. You have to stop him from doing something foolish." If Karl could stop him in time, the prisoner would most likely get a kind warning, and be led away from the danger zone. Not often, but sometimes, newer prisoners would get antsy.

"What is it?" Karl looked. "Oh, no. That won't do." He walked at a fast pace. Running would only alert the other guards.

Blümchen, her senses much more developed than Karl's, finally realized who was at the fence. It was her close friend, Sergeant Olsen. Now the scenario promised to become more interesting.

"You there. Stop. Please move away from the fence!" Karl ordered.

The prisoner turned around.

"Sergeant Olsen? You know better than that." Karl knew many prisoners by name. He was that kind of fellow.

Olsen's hands flew up while, at the same time, he jostled his body in such a way that wire cutters somehow slipped through his pant leg and ended up on the ground. Karl didn't notice.

"Go back to your barracks, and save me some paperwork," Karl pleaded in a quiet voice.

Olsen gave Blümchen a look and a hand signal. His eyes gazed downward towards the wire cutters.

"He wants to get caught." It was not Blümchen's job to question why, but it was her job to play along. She let out a cacophony of barking and the American jumped back in feigned terror. She pulled away from her handler and, leash dragging, she pounced in front of the wire cutters and pawed at them furiously.

Karl had no choice but to obey. He walked towards Olsen and picked up the wire cutters.

"Seriously?" he asked. "In broad daylight. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know, Corporal Langenscheidt. I really don't know. Sometimes, you just gotta go for the break."

To Karl's obvious consternation, the hullabaloo had attracted the attention of several guards, including Schultz. Several prisoners also took notice, including Colonel Hogan, which was no surprise.

Blümchen willed her tail to not wag at the sight of the American officer. Instead, she barked and growled.

Hogan ignored her. He turned to Olsen. "What do you think you're doing, Sergeant? You could have been shot. Is that a wire cutter?" He asked with all innocence.

"Sorry, sir. I just got antsy."

"Olsen?" Schultz stood in front of the sergeant's face; as if he was making sure it was indeed Olsen.

Blümchen found his reaction quite funny, and reminded herself to make sure she told her pack about it the next morning.

"Shame on you." The older man wagged his finger. "Where did you get the wire cutter?"

"Found it behind one of the tool sheds."

"Now I'll have to report this to the Kommandant."

"Look what you've done! He'll probably send you to the cooler," Hogan predicted.

"Geez. I'm sorry, Colonel. If it wasn't for Corporal Langenscheidt and his eagle eye, I'd be long gone."

"Hey, what about me?" Blümchen looked straight at the sergeant.

"Oh, and that nasty dog," he added.

"That's better." Blümchen picked up her paw and licked it. The prisoners frequently and deliberately pointed out the good work of their favorite guards. Dangerous and fanatical guards didn't last very long at their post. Most mysteriously disappeared.

"Sergeant, can we finish our patrol?" Karl asked.

"Go ahead. I'll take Olsen to the Kommandant. You can write your report up after you are off-duty."

"Good work, Blümchen," Karl said as they watched Schultz escort Olsen and Hogan to the Kommandanteur. "But something tells me that Olsen wanted to get caught. Although, I can't imagine why."

Blümchen's ears perked up. "You're catching on!"

She would have to report this to her pack leader, Wolfgang. Although she trusted Karl implicitly, suspicious guards needed to be watched more carefully. But she was sure it would be all right.

After all, it wasn't that long ago that Karl had regaled her with the story of his trip to a place called France. He had gone with Schultz, the colonel, and her favorite prisoner, LeBeau. With some humor, Karl enthralled her with the descriptions of the manipulation, bravery and machinations of the two prisoners.

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Instead of putting Blümchen back in the pen for a break, Karl took her to the back of the camp, where she and Karl enjoyed their dinner. It was quiet at this end. Most of the barracks in this area were not in use, and the rest of the buildings were used for storage.

After eating, Blümchen and Karl tossed a stick around. The play gave Blümchen a chance to run and stretch her legs. Sadly, however, Karl was forced to play barracks guard that evening, as Bruno was out on sick leave. Blümchen returned to the pen where, after reporting her shift's events to Wolfgang, she settled in for a nap.

And again, for the second time, her dreams were interrupted. However, this time, most of the dogs were being roused.

"What's going on?" she asked her sister, Frida.

"A plane was shot down. The humans spotted parachutes."

This was serious business. The dogs were being sent out to track the airmen. They had to put on a good show while also steering the guards astray, so that the downed men wouldn't be caught.

Meanwhile, Hogan's men would also be searching for the downed airmen. Everyone had to be on their toes to keep the guards away from both the now-terrified airmen and the prisoners trying to rescue them. All canines were on alert. The guards took their enthusiasm at face-value; they just weren't aware of who the dogs were actually working for and who was actually in control.

"Listen up."

The dogs quieted down and turned their attention to their leader.

"It was a small plane, and both humans got out. But they may be hurt. Or they may be moving. You know your duty. And our men are already out. I repeat. Our humans are already out."

The dogs trotted to the gates and, as they opened, those that were loose took off, barking and running, their guards following behind in a futile effort to keep up. With any luck, they'd be running in circles.

Several dogs, including Blümchen, were on leashes and were walking in tandem with their handlers. They all scattered in different directions.

"If I was a downed pilot, Blümchen, where would I hide?"

"Well, Karl. I'd probably not head towards a Stalag."They started off in the woods located next to the camp. Karl was methodical; he hated to leave any stone unturned. He was also smart, and he liked to search in a grid. There wasn't much Blümchen could do at this point, but follow along.

"You know, girl. It would be best if they'd head for the camp and gave themselves up. That way, they'd be safe. You never know what civilians would do to an Allied airman. Or the SS, or Gestapo." The corporal shuddered at the thought. He then crossed off a grid on his small map of the area. "Next section."

"I never thought about it that way." Blümchen kept her nose to the ground. So far, the only scents she recognized were of other guards, Hogan and several of his men. Her superior hearing detected nothing suspicious, only the usual sounds heard in the area at night.

A few moments later, Karl crossed off another grid. He stood still, looking around at the shadows formed by his flashlight. His face crinkled in deep thought, then relaxed as he made a decision.

"Where next, Karl?"

"Shhh. Don't want to give ourselves away." He gently grabbed her muzzle in the way that meant quiet, then patted her on the head. "This way."

"No not that way." Blümchen dug in her heels.

"C'mon. This way."

"Not happening."

"Fine, then. You stay." Karl walked off in a bad direction and Blümchen had no choice but to chase after him.

He threw the flashlight beam throughout the area, first up at the trees, then down at the ground in a circle. "That's weird. I don't think any of the guards came this way recently." He bent down and moved some of the leaves and brush. "Looks like someone or something's been walking through here. Probably an animal."

"Yes, you think that."

"But I can't be sure." He stood up and walked over to a tree stump.

"No. Not that tree stump!"

He sat down.

"Oh!" Blümchen was now beside herself. "This won't do."

She began barking and carrying on: spinning, pawing, and running towards another part of the woods; any place different from here. She ran back to Karl, then back out.

Her evening then got much worse. First it was her nose, then her ears that warned her of the humans heading her way. She detected four recognizable scents, and two unknown to her: prisoners and the airmen. Their movement stopped suddenly and the dog realized they'd flung themselves to the ground.

"What is it, Blümchen?" Finally, Karl left his perch and headed her way.

She had to make a move before Karl discovered the group. "This way." She took off on a run, barking a signal to the other dogs as she fled.

As Karl ran close behind her, other guards and their dogs converged on a spot at the tree line. Before them was a dark meadow, most likely the area where the downed airmen had landed. All the dogs were showing signs of agitation.

"I think we should go into the meadow," suggested one of the other guards.

"I didn't finish my grid search," Karl complained.

"That takes too long. You've never found anyone with that method. I say just follow the dogs."

Blümchen was insulted. "My Karl knows better than you. He might have caught everyone tonight if I had left him alone. And you are correct. We want you to follow us."

And so the leashed dogs continued to take their handlers on a wild goose chase into the meadow, where they met up with the loose dogs.

Blümchen and the rest of her pack were aware that their deliberate ruse would not have any long-term consequences. Colonel Hogan gave them ample opportunities to catch escaped prisoners, to prevent escapes, and to even find the occasional downed airman. The Kommandant was quite pleased with the entire set-up, although even he was frightened of the ferocious canines.

After about another hour, the guards reluctantly called off the search. The Gestapo was notified that the airmen were likely hiding somewhere near the town or heading west. The dogs were all exhausted and were grateful to be allowed back into their pen, where they immediately bedded down. But their slumber was interrupted for a brief moment when the doghouse rose and LeBeau popped up. Dodging the searchlights, as well as licks and kisses, he crawled up onto the ground until he found his friend.

"Blümchen?"

She wandered over. "Louis!" She wagged her tail, and gave the Frenchman a kiss.

"Ah, my little flower. We saw what you did. Corporal Langenscheidt is smart. But you are smarter." He affectionately rubbed her neck, then passed her a piece of meat. That is courtesy of Colonel Hogan. He was there."

"I know. And thank you, but we all played our parts." Secretly, Blümchen was proud of her herself, pleased that the human leader was able to appreciate her skills.

"I don't know what we'd do without you," LeBeau whispered as he began to crawl back towards the doghouse. "You all deserve an Academy Award."

"I don't know what that is, but does it taste good?" Blümchen let out a soft bark, quiet enough so that the guards would not hear, but loud enough so that LeBeau was aware of her answer.

LeBeau chuckled. "Bonne nuit."

"Good night, Louis." Blümchen stayed until he disappeared into the earth, and then she turned to head back to her comfortable corner in the shelter.

Wolfgang was watching from several yards away. "Good job, today."

"Thank you."

"All in a day's work."

"Yes, Wolfgang. All in a day's work."

Blümchen first appeared in my story, "With a Song in My Heart." (Chapter 17, "I Don't Want to Walk Without You.") Wolfgang appeared in an episode of the series, but it was Sgt. Moffitt who gave Wolfgang a background in "A POW's Best Friend."

I'd also like to thank Sgt. Hakeswill for her impeccable beta work on this story.


	14. Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Conniption Fit Erupts Due to a Change in Appearance. For the 2014 SSSW Contest.

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The first line in this story is originally from "Accidental Truths," by Tuttle4077

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

and I will admit, that this is a bit cruel.

There must've been something wrong with the mirror. It had to be the light. Hogan swung the door of his locker a bit closer and then changed the angle. He looked again. No. It didn't work. He pushed the door back further. Again, no change. He tilted his head up, and tilted it back. He turned a bit to the right, and then to the left.

"Son of a…" He held his tongue, lest the men outside heard the type of words that should never come out of the mouth of a commanding officer, at least publicly, that is.

"Damn, I've only been here two years, and it looks like I've aged six. Whoever said gray hair makes a man look distinguished was obviously blind."

The colonel continued to get dressed. Removing his slacks from the hanger, he admired the creases…LeBeau had done his usual terrific job of ironing…and pulled them on. He tucked in his shirt, buckled his belt, and then once again looked at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He shook his head, and in disgust, grabbed his crush cap and plopped it on his head, hoping to hide the signs of aging that had suddenly seemed to crop up overnight.

His staff was gathered around the table in the common room. They were engrossed in a card game, and failed to notice that their commanding officer had left his office.

"Ahem."

The card game stopped in mid-deal. All four looked up.

"Morning, Colonel," Carter said with a bit of wariness, for he noticed the look on Hogan's face. "Roll call in two minutes," he added helpfully.

"I know," was the reply. "Where's everyone else?"

"Already outside. Something wrong, sir?" asked Kinch.

"No. Nothing wrong," Hogan snapped. He walked over to the table and stared at Newkirk. "You're out of regulation, Corporal. And out of fashion. Shave off those sideburns." Without waiting for an answer, he walked out of the hut, slamming the door behind him.

LeBeau stood up and leaned over the astonished British corporal. "I warned you he would eventually notice."

Newkirk slammed down the card deck. "Can't catch a break, can I? You mark my words, they'll make a comeback," he said as he stroked his chin.

"Don't know what you're griping about, Newkirk," said Kinch. "You've had him like that for months. I'm surprised he didn't notice them earlier."

"Never mind that. What's the matter with Colonel Hogan?" Concern was etched on Carter's face.

"Got off on the wrong side of bed this morning, if you ask me."

"Well, Newkirk. I can't see how that's possible. The other side is the wall."

Newkirk shook his head. "It's a saying, Andrew."

The four men hurried outside and took their place in formation. It was cold, and they immediately began blowing on their hands, and stamping their feet in order to keep warm. While the rest of the barracks did the same, and as Schultz headed over to begin the count, Hogan remained still and silent.

Even Schultz noticed the colonel's change in demeanor. "Something wrong, Colonel Hogan?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

"No. I'm fine."

The tone in the colonel's voice surprised the sergeant, and he quickly stepped back, wondering if the normally cheery American officer had got off on the wrong side of bed that morning. Fortunately for Schultz, however, everyone was where he was supposed to be, and for that he was grateful. He turned and waited to make his report to the Kommandant.

HhHhH

The Kommandant was late, his morning routine taking longer than usual.

There must've been something wrong with the mirror. Assuming it had to be the light, Klink turned one way, then the other. He moved his face closer to the mirror, and peered at the face staring back at him. No, there was nothing wrong. The mirror was fine.

"It can't be," he muttered, as he stroked his bald pate. "How can I lose this much hair in so short a time? Mmmph." He shook his fist, then turned quickly and stomped out of the bathroom. He was now late for inspection, and this made him angrier. His first stop would be Barracks two, where he would inspect the formation of men and exchange morning pleasantries with the Senior POW officer, Colonel Hogan.

Hogan! That was it. Since Hogan's arrival, Klink realized, he had been losing hair at a ferocious rate. Klink recalled he had almost a full head of hair before the American officer arrived at Stalag 13. Hogan had been at the camp just over two years, and in those two years, Klink had lost so much hair that his pate resembled a bowling ball. Now thoroughly disgusted, the Kommandant grabbed his cap and swagger cane, and left his quarters, slamming the door behind him. The Kommandant slapped the cap onto his head, and marched over to Barracks two. Even from a distance, the guards and prisoners in the compound could sense trouble brewing.

"The Iron Eagle appears to be in a bad mood this morning, sir," Olsen whispered from his spot behind Hogan.

Hogan answered with a grunt, and stared blankly ahead.

"Repooorttt!" Klink yelled as he approached.

"All present and accounted for," Schultz replied.

Klink approached Hogan and glared at the colonel for a brief moment. Hogan glared back.

Hogan won the stare-down as the Kommandant blinked first. He noticed that Hogan appeared off this morning. The pilot's arms were not wrapped around his chest, but were down at his side, and his posture was ramrod straight.

"Is there something wrong, Colonel Hogan? Are you ill?"

"No, sir. Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Hogan tilted his head for a moment. "What about you? You seem off as well."

"Aha!" Klink exclaimed. "You admit there is something wrong!"

"I didn't admit to anything, sir!" Hogan stepped forward a bit, while at the same time, Klink matched the colonel's stride and stepped forward as well. "If you don't mind me getting personal, you seem out-of-sorts. We all noticed it when you were walking over here. Didn't we men?" Hogan couldn't help but fall into machination mode; it was as natural and easy as falling off a log.

His men all answered with sympathetic mutters and words of concern.

"Very well then. You are correct. Something is amiss." Klink removed his cap. "You're responsible for this!"

"Pardon me?" Hogan replied. "Something wrong with your head? What did I do?"

"Since you arrived here, Hogan, I've been losing hair at a remarkable rate. Normally it takes years to go bald. You've only been here two."

"That's true," Schultz agreed. "I've noticed."

Klink turned. "Who asked you? As I was saying. Look at this. I could be in violation of blackout regulations."

"So, you're bald. Things could be worse. You could be sent to the Russian Front. Then your head would really be cold." Hogan chuckled. "You lose most of your body heat through your head," he added.

"That is not helpful," Klink replied.

"Instead of saying you're bald, sir. Why don't you say you're follicly challenged? That has a better ring to it."

"I come from a long line of military men blessed with full heads of hair into their 70's and 80's. Clearly, Hogan, you are responsible for this."

"Come on. That's a bit of a stretch. What have I done?"

"Strange things have been happening in this camp since you arrived. Don't deny it." Klink slapped his left hand with the swagger cane a bit too hard, and he grimaced in pain.

"Haven't I gotten you out of precarious situations? Would you like me to make a list?" Hogan began counting off on his fingers. "Let's see. There was the time…"

"That's enough!"

"You know, Kommandant. If anyone has a right to complain about rapid aging, it's me. Look at this!" Hogan removed his cap.

"Look at what?" Klink asked.

"My hair!"

Klink looked, and sure enough, not only was Hogan's hairline receding, but the man was turning, no-he had turned-gray. Klink felt vindicated. He knew something was bothering the American officer.

Intrigued by this interesting new development and the repartee between the two colonels, the entire barracks gathered around.

"Blimey," Newkirk said. "So that's what got in his knickers in a twist? A bit of gray hair?"

"Yeah," Carter chuckled. "And he took it out on you. I'd go in right now and shave off those sideburns."

"I think it makes you look distinguished, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said.

"Who asked you?" Hogan and Klink replied in unison.

Schultz stepped back, mumbling something about vain officers and how everyone had aged about a decade since the war started.

"At least, Colonel Hogan. You still have some hair."

"You still have a bit on the sides, Kommandant," Hogan said as he put his cap back on his head.

"Yes. Well that is true," Klink agreed, as he did the same.

Hogan was beginning to feel a bit ridiculous. Worrying about gray hair when millions were dying was, well, selfish.

"Poor diet and stress take a toll, Kommandant," he said. "On everyone."

Klink nodded. "Duly noted." He paused for a moment. "You may dismiss your men, Hogan." Klink turned and walked over to the next set of barracks. He too, felt a bit foolish, although he admitted to himself that he would be first in line for the cure for baldness, if one ever became available.

The men of Barracks two shuffled back into the hut. A few then left to head towards the mess hall for breakfast, while the rest decided to make do with the food they had available to them in the barracks.

Hogan poured himself a cup of coffee, and then turned to Newkirk. "You think there's any chance of needing a gas mask around here?"

"I highly doubt it, Guv'nor."

Hogan nodded. "You can keep your sideburns, for now."

"Thank you, sir."

After breakfast, when Hogan left the barracks to see to official business, the four men closest to the colonel headed down into an area of the tunnels where they couldn't be overheard.

"To tell you the truth, I never noticed the gray hair. Seemed to happen overnight," Newkirk admitted to the other three.

"I think women notice those things more than men," LeBeau said.

The others nodded in agreement.

"So, you don't think he's realized…?" Carter asked.

"It's been a week," Newkirk replied. "If Colonel Hogan hasn't realized I've let out his slacks by now, I don't think he ever will."

Yes, I am poking fun at Richard Dawson's out-of-place sideburns, and of course, at Bob Crane's change in appearance, especially in the last season. Actors do age, and when a show lasts much longer than the war, it is all the more obvious. (look at Alan Alda in MASH)

In the first season episode, "Go Light on the Heavy Water," Klink is fooled into thinking that heavy water brought into camp can actually make hair grow. He's shown being a bit vain about his appearance and very concerned about his baldness.

And I'd like to thank Sgt. Hakeswill for suggesting the use of Klink in this story, which I just wrote and got up at the last minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Judging by the size of the recreation hall in the show, it makes sense that barracks would have specific times to use the facilities. According to my research, the British seemed to be more eager to attempt escapes. Officers of course, had an "obligation" to try. Despite the clandestine radios, supplies, maps etc, successful escapes were very difficult and actually quite rare. Word of the "Great Escape" and the subsequent execution of most of the recaptured prisoners were spread around the camps. Ferret was the term coined for the German soldiers who specialized in "sniffing out" tunnels and other means of escape. In one episode, Hogan mentioned he had been a cadet, so I am making him a West Point grad. Was he a strict commander? Despite his occasional "loose" demeanor, which was I believe was partially an act, I think he would have to be, to keep everyone safe.


End file.
